In November the winds remain,
Diminished in force,
Yet colder and sullen,
A foreboding season,
Still the cornucopia of harvest is celebrated,
A gathering in,
Comfort and rest with kin and kind,
A season's labor behind.
The cold comes,
Guard you well the embers of fires,
We must stand strong Winter's bane and icy bluster,
So that in Spring,
The colored leaves of Autumn will feed the blossoms soon to green the long hot Summer.
By: Daniel A. Stafford