A November walk down an old rutted road
Through a fog, though misty and thick,
I’ve ventured to see that old rustic house,
With moss upon the brick.

The sun has been swallowed behind the dark clouds,
The air is bitter and chilled,
The winds change from North to East to South-
South-West, but never are stilled.

The weeds growing thick by the edge of the house,
Live now, while others cannot,
They thrive in the cold with the wind and the snow,
Instead of the summertime hot.

The apple trees dropped their fruits in the yard
When nobody came to call,
The red and the yellow lie mixed with the brown
Of the leaves that were dropped in the Fall.

A November day in the life of the house,
Like others of future or past,
Does little to change the brick and the wood,
Or the darkened shadows cast.

An early Fall snow still clings to the roof,
And ice makes the sidewalk slick,
But the wind and the cold can never remove
The moss upon the brick.