A peace that only silence knows.

November’s breath, cold and thin,

Weaves through trees with whispered din.

Golden leaves, now tattered, stray,

Scattered remnants of a day.

Loneliness in the brittle air,

Echoes in the branches, bare.

The sky, a canvas drenched in gray,

Holds no promise, hides no ray.

Footsteps fade on empty streets,

Echoes lost where silence meets.

Hearts, like windows, fogged and dim,

Watch as shadows gently swim.

A single crow, stark and lone,

Marks the season’s somber tone.

Wings beat slowly, solemn, wide,

Tracing paths where warmth has died.

Each raindrop taps a quiet plea,

Upon the world, upon the sea.

And as the twilight gathers near,

Loneliness finds form in fear.

November’s chill, a tender ache,

Draws out truths we dare not fake.

In this hollow, brief descent,

The soul finds solace, not lament.

For even in this pale retreat,

Where no two drifting echoes meet,

There’s a grace in letting go,

A peace that only silence knows.