Giving Thanks

November 24, 1993|By Barbara M. Simon

Some would have it,

as we drift into autumn

and our histories pile up,

that this is decline.

Some would say,

while we move through

November

and what was becomes smoke,

that the moment is past.

Some would think

today, sere; yesterday

a song, gone and sweet;

tomorrow, an emptiness.

I prefer to trust

what is

skeletal

bare

bleached. I dance

under the skull moon

beneath a spine of clouds.

I find a faith in all

that remains, my thanks

an absolute belief

that what must be,

is.

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