So quiet in November’s restless glow,

The year drifts by in one last falling spiral.

The canvas waits, its colors running low,

Soft watercolors fading in denial.

Before the snow, let’s rise above the sky,

Where clouds, like us, keep changing with the weather.

We’ll taste the smoke that slowly drifts on by,

Above the lake, a fisherman and nature breathe together.

A tailwind lifts us from the silver lake

To Petersburg—its autumn, sighs, and poets.

To Jerusalem, where Christmas starts to wake,

And nuns kiss wax, though no one ever knows it.

Before the snow, let’s rise above the sky,

Where clouds, like us, keep changing with the weather.

We’ll taste the smoke that slowly drifts on by,

Above the lake, a fisherman and nature breathe together.

The courtyard dog is crying in the dawn;

The night-time chill has finally overtaken.

The year sheds leaves, and quietly moves on

Through people’s homes already grief-awakened.

Before the snow, let’s rise above the sky,

Where clouds, like us, keep changing with the weather.

We’ll taste the smoke that slowly drifts on by,

Above the lake, a fisherman and nature breathe together.