Thanks Given
by Lisa King | Wed. Nov. 22
Feathered blue sky, wisp over me
Strands of glittergold catch my eyelids
A clean contentment settles over this house
As leaf-dusty wind rattles the windowscreens.
Dog show parade, cinnamon, cardamom, clove,
Booze and herb hang in the kitchen like
A caravan on the move. The sounds of strange
Children in the distance carry with swing-set creak.
A pie is a sort of optimism; and wooden spoons
Of kitchen witches know exactly how to cast magick
Into meals long made. Generations gather, love, disagree-
Only to love again. We mark sadnesses and new life.
It’s a DNA gathering, a fable with the best china.
Celebration of hearth and table, as land, beast, and vegetable
Fill our horns of plenty. We are not expected to work-
Commands the referee’s shrill whistle with yardage announced.
Pipe tobacco Uncles, sweet perfumed Grandmothers,
Wine-soaked teachers are they all. Chaos ensues;
It is ours to own. Crazy, we wonder, yet it all
Fits into place like a tender treasurebox.
We know we are existing on borrowed time.
Each year, the table is less full; we smile through bitter thoughts.
We pull close to the realm of the living- Present.
Take it all in, now, take it in child.
Book on deck, coffee in hand, we face the day in
New Pajamas, glittering twinklelights strung.
What will happen, when I am old and these bones
Surrounding me are long dust?
The Wheel will turn, and the Time of Giving
Thanks will continue to come.
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