November wears a cloak of hallowe’en’s leftover spiderweb tendrils
and the dying dreams of the leaves.
She darkens the sky with her icy breath to make the stars brilliant
and the lovers move closer to attempt a reprieve from the cold.
The thought of delicate fingered hands in gloves;
a scarf, caressing the soft skin of a throat;
boots and coats zipped securely against her onslaught
make her smile.

She brings rain
She brings wind
She brings the misty eyed memory of summer to a close.
She brings back the mystery of what’s underneath
The delightful anticipation
of something needing to be sought out,
Tantalizing and slow.

Unlike the blatancy of summer
With it’s lack of surprise,
Lack of modesty,
Lack of discretion.
A smorgasbord of flavour and flash
WIthout any consideration
Of decorum,
November is a reminder
Of beauty neither inhibited, nor innocent
But reserved
And certainly not scared of the dark.

She understands well, the best things for a night
That is long and dark and cold.
November is a romantic, after all.