November

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.

John Updike