For my favorite holiday--mostly because it's still pure. All its good intentions and purposes haven't been ruined yet. Because its just such a wonderful idea to have a day set apart for gratitude.

                          Thanksgiving


I have walked stilled vineyards--
          through thick fog snaking through the rows
                    of almost naked branches,
          through the confetti of their reds and golds
                              sifting the soft gray.
I have seen the twisted, upturned viney fingers
                    raised in alleluia
And heard the hymn of woody things.

And I have eaten bread dough off my fingers
          in my grandmother's warm kitchen
And heard her stories from her own mouth.
And listened to her whistle as she punched the loaves.

I have heard the psalms of blackbirds in the reeds.
I have eaten apples high up in the trees
          surrounded by their fluttering shade--
Felt the green juice pinch my tonsils
                    and sticky my chin.
I have heard the incantations of bees in grass
And felt moonlight in my bones.

I have felt the sureness of my son's strong arm
And trusted my secret heart
          to my daughter's kindly one.
I have been shaped and healed and loved
                    by a good and just man.
I have felt the words of friends like a balm.

I rise up to that place--
                    that still place--
And look down
          free of flesh
                    and all its exquisite, delightsome burdens.
I wheel overhead on borrowed wings.

                    Praise be.
                    It is enough.
                              Praise be.
                              It is more than enough.