November does not readily lend itself to lines of poetry. Gone are the blue skies and brisk mornings of September and October. There is little hope of one of those unseasonably warm days that surprise and delight everyone. It is not quite…not quite the time of twinkling snow or hot chocolate or fires in the fireplace, not quite the season of holiday cheer (after all, by the time families gather around a turkey and Christmas music is played in earnest, November is all but over), and not quite the coming of new year resolutions. It is even too early to wait for it to be beautiful again. The Light has passed, the skies are grey, and we find ourselves in a strange liminal space of the desolate, the dark, the cold drizzles, the dreariness, with which we must sit. And what is there to say about that? It’s ugly, or so it seems, and most of us have just resigned ourselves to simply wishing it were something else.