Thursday Poem - November Song

Praise the light of late November,

the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.
Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;
though they are clothed in night, they do not
despair. Praise what little there's left:
the small boats of milkweed pods, husks,

hulls, shells, the architecture of trees.

Praise the meadow of dried weeds:

yarrow, goldenrod, chicory, the remains

of summer. Praise the blue sky that hasn't

cracked. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt

of leaves that covers the grass:

Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum, Sugar Maple.

Though darkness gathers, praise our

crazy fallen world; it's all we have,

and it's never enough.

Barbara Crooker