November, ever wicked thief,
you came last night and slashed each leaf,
leaving limbs like bones sucked dry
by starving strays afraid to die.
November, year’s-end bitter tramp,
who robins’ warblings would revamp
into your smirking whine of wind,
which takes till April to rescind.
You, dark thug, who slithers in,
cold as pond-scum, scrape my skin.
But one thing sure my meadow knows,
you could not claim her last white rose!