November Poem by Roy Ballard

November, summer's cooling ember,
is a death; you cannot blow
into its heart and make it glow.
November woods, in summer's ashes,
dressed in gold and russet splashes,
strip their clothes, show every member
naked in the blinding, low,
unwarming sun or else they blow
with rougher winds than we remember.
Leaves and flowers, down they go;
the dark is here; there will be snow.
The spring will come; I know, I know.
and yet there is no switch to throw
to make November go and so
we coldly pass into December.