In November

November, not really there.
A forgotten month, sometimes —
Not quite December,
A prelude to sendings,
A beginning of endings,
Is it winter or not?

Oh! Then suddenly,
Shock of rain rushing over the sea
Into the hills, November!
And it is gone.

Marginal Note

Too soon, it is November's end; with that comes all the tumult of the last of time, the last of times, the running out of sand and fuel and life and noise and scant resources.

And here we are, watching over the dissolution of the old.