Thanksgiving was too late
Thanksgiving was too late. Too late for what I wanted. No leaves singing laughter still aflutter wind-kissed against the sky and blushing waving bye to migrant birds above but somersaulted to dark beds below where drained of color, crushed, crumpled they lie and wait for emptying’s reward of being taken in God’s store of wet and sturdy ground where ground to time they up again will rise through vaulting pores and veins to be greeted in some spring by birds returned and the over-joyed weeping of the skies. So wait. Wait on the wood leafless and nude like Adam and Eve before they fell. Wait for them awakening.