to an old dead tree
get word to April
to rescue me.
November's cold chain
made of wet boots and rain
and shiny black ravens
on chimney smoke lanes
Tom Waits, 'November'
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, - November!
Thomas Hood, 'No!'
While November numbly collapses,
this beech tree, heavy as death
on the lawn, braces for throat-
cutting ice, bandaging snow.
Edwin Honig, 'November Through a Giant Copper Beech'
Fog in November, trees have no heads,
Streams only sound, walls suddenly stop
Half-way up hills, the ghost of a man spreads
Dung on dead fields for next year's crop.
Leonard Clark, 'Fog in November'
I'll be in gnawing off my own legs for sustenance in a snow drift somewhere in Aberdeenshire by the time you read this.
*Opens door, blizzard swirls in* "I could be some time..."
More November poems at gardendigest.com