Brigham came home and told me that John Updike had died. It felt strange to think that he was no longer a part of the world that he described so well. He wrote a book of poems called "A Child's Calendar," one poem per month. When I learned of its existence I bought it sight unseen. I have not regretted it. Here is my favorite.

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.