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.