November skies of orange glow,
Do grace my sight, set sky ablaze,
In brilliance un-equalled by grey of winter,
Or powder blue of summer.
Leaves fall in a whirlwind of colour,
Red, orange, yellow, purple,
Crisp crunching beneath my feet,
Parting gifts of summer's warmth as it flees cold winters embrace.
The pitter patter of the last few rains,
Before bitter storms of winter,
The final harvest of bounteous fields,
In haste ahead of winter's frost.
Wax and wane of moon grows clear,
As long days fade to lengthy nights,
As fires light in houses cold,
And sun but wilts and falls away.
What you have lost.
The coming cold.
As you look upon the burning skies of November.