Eleventh Of The Twelve

Welcome, November,
entered on tiptoe.
Mirthless whisperer
of bygone summer’s woe.

Misunderstood month,
despised by the most.
Yet you offer comfort
to the scared and lost.

A thick fog is cast,
veiling all of our pains.
Cleansing rain of past
sins keenly hailed again.

When the first ice comes,
congealing men’s ardours,
a truce gently calms
many turbulent sorrows.

Bright colours are muted,
ceased offending the eyes
too delicate to bear
the arrogance of light.

The little blade of grass
peeping out of frozen mud
is as weak against the gusts
as me at the idea of God.