It was November–
the month of crimson sunsets,
parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea,
passionate wind–songs in the pine.
Anne roamed through the pineland alleys
in the park and, as she said,
let that great sweeping wind blow
the fogs out of her soul
L M Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
Oh, November. It drags on my soul. The cold gray clouds. The blustery winds that chill me in a way that sends ripples of pain into my back. And yet, this is my month. My birthday month. Sigh.