Saturday, November 21, 2015

Praise Song

Praise Song
by Barbara Crooker

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 yet. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves
that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,
Sugar Maple. Though the darkness gathers, praise the crazy
fallen world; it's all we have, and it's never enough.



Found on the Writer's Almanac here
 

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