Inside, a fire crackles and glows,
While outside, a cold November wind blows.
The leaves are orange, gold, and red:
So beautiful, yet . . . they are dead.

Just like how I feel inside, sometimes,
When I can longer finish my rhymes,
When I'm too tired to keep on fighting,
When I can't even make myself keep on writing.

How can I know what I'm thankful for
When some things I loved are here no more?
The year behind me has left its mark,
What's more, left me crying to God in the dark.

But if it left its mark, left me crying,
What else is left? Hold on, I'm trying
To think what this means; if nothing's right
Then everything's left, and I see the light!

So let me thank God for all I have...