Poem - Thanksgiving

Ahhhh…… Thanksgiving – now that’s something I can sink my teeth into. Every year in my family we have a wonderful tradition of going around the dinner table and each of us stating one thing we were grateful for in the past year. I love this holiday, so in honor of the occasion I’ve written a poem in a Wordsworth-like style. Hope you like it.

Thanksgiving

What is there about a field of Barley
golden, crisp, flowing and rippling in the afternoon breeze
like the waves of a frothy blue, deep ocean
on a day in November when frost is plentiful and
harvest is ripe to be wrought from the burnt umber vines
shriveling back to the bed of earth for it’s rich warmth
leaving it’s painstaking fruits behind
for our cakes, pies and breads
licking our butter spattered cheeks
by the sap-crackling fire on a cold winter’s morn
and stirring up warmth like a meaty stew
slowly bubbling on the stove all day
and filling the house with it’s brothy aroma?

Why is it that we travel like pack mules
dirty, tired, and sweaty
with shards of fur shagged off from a prick of barbed wire
and maneur grown thick in the hooves
trodding over fields stubbled with nubs of corn crop stalks
remaining in the heart of Autumn
when they’ve been cut down and banded together with twine
standing erect in scattered clusters for miles to see
with plump, ripened pumpkins deep in russet brazen tones
at their base, preparing for the snows of winter,
and each of us,
coming together with our own brood,
nestled through the passing years of old harvest & new growths
calling that universal ring like a loud, heavy steeple church bell
low and humming within our souls
vibrating through our blood line of generations
driving us homeward like migrating geese
back to the small towns of our youth
hidden from the absurd realities we now live
and tucked away like a Norman Rockwell
reliving football games and hot dogs, floats,
candied apples, Uncle Tommie, prom gowns, Sunday dinners,
the chorus at Midnight Mass, grandma,
your dog barking as you come up the drive,
and parents still cheering for you in the crowd
filling your lungs with the hearty laughter
that rolls along like a high school marching band
with the drum reverberating within your chest?

What is it that brings us back to the roots
Of our lives, our loves, our memories, our past?
The answer is woven within the worn and tightly knotted strands
Of a blanked called, “Family”
On a day we call Thanksgiving.