A Dreary Weekend

It is already November - can you believe it? I'm telling you the older I get the faster time seems to fly.  Now the years are shorter, and the days (and nights) never seem to have enough hours in them.  Alas, there is no formula for slowing down time.  If there were, some one of us would be richer for it.  Still, there are days we may not want to slow down.  

Anyway, I should get on with the point of this post.  I used to write poetry, or at least I dabbled at it from time to time.  Still do when the spirit moves me.  I wrote one a long time ago about a gray November day.  Now we rarely have snow here in November, but it can still put a chill in your bones.

November Gray

Cold and windy, bleak and gray
What more can you ask
Of a November day
Snow clouds and chickadees
Creep in and settle down
Ore the mountains and valleys alike
The last of the leaves
Crinkled with age
Are carelessly blown astray
Gentle flakes begin to fall
And blankets the earth in
Snowy white
To everyone, tall or small
It brings peals of laughter and delight
And adds some warmth to a
Dreary day dressed only in
November gray