Passing of November

It's still November; the harbingers,
of winter have appeared, innocent,
soft and fair, exquisitely pure.

still cling the red oak leaves, crisp, brown;
our eyes still inclined to colorful,
scenes, foliage and skies, autumn's air.

Now, desire cannot fool us, dual minded,
nor single sighted, sternly focused ahead,
We'll walk into winter, wavering,
not by hind sight or by fancy's ploy.

And meet it, as always, face the real,
and add, in contrast to reluctance,
the anticipation of the fest,
the celebration of the Promise,

fulfilled in the dawn of centuries,
ago that we hold our hope of hopes,
fulfilled by our God Himself, the birth,
our Pardon, His one begotten Son.

November passing, sparkle, lights, tinsel,
merry music and the sacred hymn sound,
filling ears and eyes and hearts waiting,
for repeat of ancient news: He came!

Early signs, amazingly soft clustered,
crystals, falling cloak the scene in pearl,
and leave the pure luster that it merits.