When November Comes

When November comes,
the rain knows every window.
Leaves gather by the doorway like old friends coming home.
I pull your chair beside the fire,
though you're not sitting there.
Funny how a room remembers someone who's no longer here.
When November comes,
I feel the years somehow. The children have their own lives,
and I'm the old man now.
But I still thank God for every chair
that once surrounded me.
Some blessings become memories,
but they're blessings still to me.
There's coffee on the table,
a Bible by my side.
Your picture catches firelight,
and for a moment, you're alive.
Soon they'll come for Thanksgiving,
little footsteps through the door,
and this old house will breathe again
the way it did before.
Oh, when November comes,