Frost poem, "My November Guest," and a thought or two

Here's a favorite poem of mine from Frost:

My November Guest

My sorrow, when she’s here with me,
     Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
     She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
     She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
     Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
     The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
     And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
     The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
     And they are better for her praise.

Enjoy the beauty around us, even if it's a muted, understated loveliness. Or, not even if, but because of. Too often, we are distracted by the more obvious, flashy things-- we are magpies of experience. Take a minute and find something spare, strange, or different to focus on. Value lies in that.

Hugs and prayers for safe-keeping,

C