I did not write the following poem. Thomas Hood did. Nor does it contain any of my sentiments.
No sun–no moon!
No morn–no noon!
No dawn–no dusk–no proper time of day–
No sky–no earthly view–
No distance looking blue–
No road–no street–
No “t’other side the way”–
No end to any Row–
No indications where the Crescents go–
No top to any steeple–
No recognitions of familiar people–
No courtesies for showing ‘em–
No knowing ‘em!
No mail–no post–
No news from any foreign coast–
No park–no ring–no afternoon gentility–
No company–no nobility–
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member–
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November is, for me, a happy design of YES, whose pattern was outlined way back in childhood on the farm. By November the corn was harvested, the potatoes dug, a new batch of steers brought from the yards, the aroma of drying tobacco in the sheds, hunting season, the retiring of equipment and the installation of the snow plow, the one section of the barn cleared for basketball, and best of all, Thanksgiving Day.
November is gratitude month. Although our first child and two grandsons were born in November, I don’t esteem the month for its melodramatic activities. Thank sanity, Halloween is over. At our house Christmas hasn’t begun. The emptiness of the month allows for a free soaring of possibilities.
Today I planted allium (purple sensation) and hyssop (black adder), brought in the calla bulbs, emptied the planters on the front porch, threw aluminum sulphate on the hydrangeas and pachysandra, removed seeds from some of the tall grasses, and cut away a bit more lawn for the spreading of the ground cover under the gingko.
And that is just the first morning of the new month. Inasmuch as the writers meet for breakfast on Saturday, I may try to write my own poem about November.