Contributed by Nan Potts
This time of year when north wind blows,
the snow abounds and rime surrounds.
But this November, no.
A cold descends upon the land,
ice slicked byways make vile highways.
But this November, no.
The sun wanes strength and hides itself,
behind mountains and cloud fountains.
But this November, no.
Green grass vanished, brown supplanted,
with white coating, skiers’ gloating.
But this November, no.
Still seasons change, as are their tasks,
each year altered but n’er faltered.
Has this November? No.
