November

I open up the cobwebbed door,
As a hurl of cold wind attacks my face,
I step outside onto the squelching doormat,
And set my eyes upon this 'November place'.

The ground is dusted with a thin sprinkle of sugar,
Embedded with sparkling, heavy footprints,
Pixels of white, glowing sunlight dance,
Causing the glimmering path to glint.

Bare-branched trees nudge the clouds in the sky,
Sitting in a puddle of bright amber leaves,
The air is tinged with a bitter, icy chill,
Through the trees, a wisp of wind weaves.

A flock of birds soar back to their home,
Frightened by the echo of tolling church bells,
The early dark night washes out the day,
In this wonder of a place, where November dwells.