November, a poem by John Updike

The stripped and shapely Maple grieves
The loss of her departed leaves.

The ground is hard
As hard as stone.
The year is old
The birds are flown.

And yet the world,
Nevertheless,
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.