November

My November Guest

Robert Frost

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.

She talks and I am fain to list:

She's glad the birds are gone away,

She's glad her simple worsted gray

Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,

The faded earth, the heavy sky,

The beauties she so wryly sees,

She thinks I have no eye for these,

And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know

The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow,

But it were vain to tell her so,

And they are better for her praise.

So yes, it's November.

The days are shorter.

The wind has a chill to it which foreshadows what is to come.

Winter is not far away. No, not far at all.

All those pretty leaves now litter the yard, reminders of what was.

I don't begrudge the coming of winter, it's all part of the eternal cycle of days.

This has been going on long before I was here.

And will continue long after I'm gone.

But for now, I'm enjoying the ride.

Wondering what comes next.

And loving every moment...