The Omega to the Alpha,

the hatching to the hens,

fall is over,

before it even begins.

The leaves sway gold-tinted,

The wind stings like pins

But then the suns heats the landscape

For a vernal spin

A month for adjustment,

For settling invictus,

Your only holiday,

Is a springboard for Christmas.

Without the lament of September,

Nor the gusto of October,

You’re but a plateau,

For father winter to bowl over.

I’m not broiling your season-hood,

I’m only stating facts,

If I were a wagering man,

It’s with you I’d make a pact.

Where I’m settled in my routine,

When acquired to my studies,

When nestled into relationships,

With those I call my buddies.

With eleven months for dynamism,

To be constrained and to be free,

I look to you November

For stability and tranquility.