In November’s quiet, softly it calls,
The rustle of leaves as they gently fall.
A golden carpet on the forest floor,
Whispering secrets of the days before.

The air turns crisp with a tender chill,
While the sun dips low beyond the hill.
Shadows stretch across the amber fields,
As the autumn’s grace slowly yields.

Memories linger in the cooling mist,
Of laughter shared, of moments kissed.
November holds us in its tender clasp,
With dreams of warmth we yearn to grasp.

Each day a canvas of fading light,
Painting the sky in hues of twilight.
In the heart of fall, where silence reigns,
November’s whisper softly remains.