Ode to A Grey November  © Mollie Pearce McKibbon 2013

The golden fires of Autumn

Are just past memories;

October’s glory washed away

By grey November’s breeze.

The tired sun, wan and pale,

Barely shows its face

Until the soft white winter quilt

Is gently tucked in place.

The grass and trees need their rest;

The flower bulbs must sleep.

All God’s creatures tiptoe round

Or slumber on in peace.

Their clock is set for Springtime

When all will stretch and sigh

And, renewed, the sun will smile

Up in a clear blue sky.

So don’t regret November days

As they creep slowly by.

They are only preparation for

Our Creator’s lullaby.