A hot November is a quite strange thing,
A false reminder of the warmer days
Implanted with the memory of spring,
Untinged by winter's fast approaching grays.
Summers are used to leaving in a blaze,
But what replaces them? Autumns can be
As warm as summer in its golden haze:
Where should the line be drawn when, quietly,
The heat refuses to depart? When we
Speak of the fall, we have some expectations,
Which, still unmet, can leave us out at sea.
The seasons are not merely our creations,
Yet sometimes seem so: still, a hot November
Seems an omen for a bad December.
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