Short, cruel and cold,
dark wet winds bark.
Ice bites, leaves fold,
fly from trees bare, stark.
Hidden things shine
through the short day's doors.
Sleep for nature's twine;
cold creeps, sweeps, pours.
Crows and magpies shriek,
and sinking hope flees.
Frozen words we cannot speak,
and even stones freeze in the breeze.
November sinks into our bones,
November sinks into our homes.