November's gray is nearly complete--from the low-hanging sky to the newly bare trees, to the quickly dirty snow when it blankets the ground. Gray. Even the leaves, once a rich jeweled blaze, fall victim. Off the trees and flittering through the gutters, they darken and crumple, dead.
Time for some Rilke.
Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.
Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander on the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
Rainer Maria Rilke