November 27, 2011

November by John Updike

The stripped and shapely

Maple grieves

The ghosts of her

Departed leaves.

The ground is hard,

As hard as stone.

The year is old,

The birds are flown.

And yet the world,

In its distress,

Displays a certain

Loveliness–

The beauty of

The bone. Tall God

Must see our souls

This way, and nod.

Give thanks: we do,

Each in his place

Around the table

During grace. 

A Child’s Calendar