The O's of November by May Sarton

I remember
The cold
And the somber
O’s of November
No birdsong in the marsh
Not even at dawn
But only the crows
Loud and harsh.

Like the trees we are bare
And the chill on the air
Speaks of death.
They are shooting the deer.
In this time in this place
Of the dying body
It is dark now at four.
We are pulled down to earth.

But the O’s of November
In all times and all places
Bring the ancient rite,
Bring the snows of December.
In all the religions
All over the earth
The candles are lit
For rebirth.