A cold and sunny end of November

 I once wrote a poem where the first two lines were:

The wind blows Novemberly

to the finger-snap of season change...

( I forget the middle of the poem, but it ends with)

The creek,

a ribbon of tinsel

through the leaf-gone trees.

How sad is that that I can't remember the rest of the poem, and can't find it anywhere in my piles of paper?

But here is a gorgeous photo from Tina Giaimo, of Cape May:

Pity of the Leaves

Edwin Arlington Robinson 

Vengeful across the cold November moors,
Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak
Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek,
Reverberant through lonely corridors.

The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce,
Words out of lips that were no more to speak—
Words of the past that shook the old man’s cheek
Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors.

And then there were the leaves that plagued him so!
The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside
Skipped with a freezing whisper.
Now and then
They stopped, and stayed there—just to let him know
How dead they were; but if the old man cried,
They fluttered off like withered souls of men.

 

and I've found this treasure: