oh what on earth
are they? you say
November ghosts are these
they're spirits of the trees
of leaves that twist and twirl down to the ground
of flowers withered, fallen, hanging dead
November ghosts are winds that howl
through the skies and moan
November ghosts are times when you feel sad
and so alone
they haunt the places you would play
when summer would abound
they're trees that flail against the wind
their arms skeleton bare
they're memories of spring, of crickets
all the summer's sound.
The world is poised
it waits for snow
but in it's stead
they creep in slowly
They're people huddled inside their houses
their blankets curled around them
they steal the heart of the world.
This end has problems. Should I just end with Sound? I can't figure out how to fix the end....