November tolls for autumn’s fate,
The winter’s sure sign and herald.
The wind, old beggar, is at the gate.
I spend my nights reading Fitzgerald.
The weird flames of candle light
Disturb my insolence by chance.
The heaven looks like turning white —
First snow is falling at a glance.
The season’s best for meditation.
Love waiting for the coming dawn
Admiring nature’s hesitation
And its inevitable mourn.