I’m shocked generally
by the suddenness of November:
magnificence abruptly shed
to a standard nakedness–
grasses deadened
by hoarfrost,
persistent recollections
of individuals I’ve misplaced.
It’s left to these of us
dressed within the exhausting
barky pores and skin of expertise
to insist on a decorum
that rises to the greatness
of a real Thanksgiving.
This isn’t a recreation
in opposition to a badly scheduled workforce,
an uneven match on an uneven pitch.
That is Life.
That is Life.
That is Life.
Not politely mumbled phrases,
murmured with a practiced and meticulous earnestness.
Thanksgiving was born a breech-birth,
a screaming appreciation for being alive–
for not being one of many many
who did not make it–
who could not moil by means of
one other hardscrabble 12 months
on tubers and scarce fowl.
Thanksgiving is for being you.
There are not any thanks with out you.
You’re the energy of hopeful promise;
you’re the balky soil turning upon itself;
you might be bursting forth in your expertise.
You aren’t the individual subsequent to you–
not a picture or an expectation.
You’re the infinite and everlasting you–
blessed, and beloved, and consoled
by the utter commonness
and neighborhood of our souls.
We cry and we’re held.
We love and we maintain.
We’re the harvest of God,
continuously renewed,
continuously woke up
to a brand new thanksgiving.
