November is weeping her tears of regret,
The leaves in a mass are sodden and wet,
A year full of promise is waning in pain,
Her hope too far gone for her now to regain.
Oh where is the mirth of clear April air,
The fragrance of iris in June’s days too rare?
or August with harvest for those who prepared?
They’re gone! And November is dull when compared.
November! Your tears show you prudent and wise,
By instinct give respite to all growing lives.
Each leaf that has fallen leaves scars you can’t hide
But too there are buds–a dead leaf justified!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, November 5, 1947