There is a rose

There is a rose which shivers    
 this November afternoon    
A faint mist about    
the bird feeder dripping empty    
no birds sing or feed as      
I sit and write and glean,     
seek inspiration; even the birds      
have shunned this November day.      
August songs a memory, a compensation ,  
this cold bleak afternoon at three.    
At five it will be dark.    
Berries, red cheer the day .  
 Advent now, soon Christmas tide      
 relief from quarrels.    
Faith returns until January      
 with it fate:  . . . . . . . .  spring returns .    
Nature's promises believed.