Because is it really your fault? the darkness and drizzle, the sunset by four in the afternoon, the too much pumpkin pie.
Aren't you just the passage of one lonely moon in the sky? Aren't you just a grid of days pinned to the wall, named and numbered without reference to any wish of your own? Do you have any wishes, November? For all we know you'd rather be dancing with flowers in your hair and is it your fault there are no flowers any more? Maybe you would rather curl up and sleep just as much as any of us.
But you are dogged, November. The wild pirate of the year, despised before you even board our silly ship. Though our disdain does not deter you. Nothing stops you. Day by day you keep sailing on a little further, taking no more than you have ever taken from us, but never taking less, persevering into winter with a kind of gallant fatalism I could almost admire.
Instead I will forgive you.