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Who praises the penultimate? Neither ending nor beginning,
cloud-banks clumping, grey light thinning,
skies oppressing, calendars that seem to stall,
neither noise nor silence, some say, nothing at all,
a few last weary, dry or sodden leaves to fall ....

Pumpkins rot or dessicate, past the time for trick or treating,
festive cards still bland, before the time for sending or for greeting ...
fog that chills and chafes and clings,
memories' winsome whisperings,
at first sight, only dreary, deadened things ....

And yet I WILL praise this month, self-effacing,
and not bid sluggish time to start its racing,
I will praise the nuances of shade,
the gentle games by subtle sunlight played,
as it breaks, brave, modest, not delayed

but at the time it should, with the year wending
towards rebirth that will come after ending ...
a time of fireside flickers, of a first, half-furtive frost,
of blood-red poppies honouring the lost,
I will defend this month - it needs it most.

A well written and enjoyable-to-read poem!

And I will defend your theme; in fact, when I was about 11 years old I wrote a poem for English class on this very subject. I wish I still had it in memory, but alas too many years have passed, and I do not. There is a rare and subtle beauty to the month of November that seems to drift by most people unnoticed. We revel in the renaissance of the spring months and delight as we romp in the sunlight of the summer months, but we pay short shrift to the somber raiment of early November - to the chill, the gloomy light, and Nature's sullen personality. But even in this there is beauty would one make the effort to ferret it out. The indecisive, vacillating shifts of sunlight and shadow as Nature ponders its mood; the frost of morning giving way to gentle warmth as the day progresses; the mad rush to find the extra blanket as night descends, the cold enfolds us, and Nature broods. I wouldn't have it any other way. To be privileged to experience Nature's seasons in all their aspects is one of those blessings we often fail to appreciate.

Thanks for sharing your poem Lassie!

Thanks, DATo, I wish I could read your poem on the same subject, but you're right, memories fade.

How true.
December is christmas; January's a beginning; February is love; March and April are easter; May, June, July and August are summer; September is fall; October's halloween but November is so often neglected, forgotten or just waited through.
November though wet and grey is beautiful with a strange silence and peace to it.

I particularly like these lines of the poem.

And yet I WILL praise this month, self-effacing,
and not bid sluggish time to start its racing,
I will praise the nuances of shade,
the gentle games by subtle sunlight played,