My November

My November huddles in houses,
buries itself under blankets,
and hides in whatever pockets
of warmth it can find.
My November burns the midnight oil
and stays away after the party has ended,
swallowing the last of the mulled wine,
gone cold in coffee mugs.
Rising in the chill,
my November flutters to the window
to watch the day roll in
with a fog-whitened sky.