November

A poem about fall

Snow crusted over dead grass
And the last of the autumn-jewel-leaves
Embedded in the icy frosting
Sleeping November wood
Creaks in the biting breeze
Groaning like an old man
Standing up from his easy chair
The very air is dead
The headiness of October
Gone, and only a confused
Bird call to remind you
That you are alive
Because it's easy to forget
Among the naked old man trees