Thanksgiving, my 75th
this chilly autumn morning. Birdbath frozen.
Abandoned houseplant drooped dead on the ledge.
Jays and Cardinals still roost on barren branches—
dabs of reds and blues. Ice-frosted leaves curl.
Squirrel digs for a nut. The sky gray splotched.
I, warm, caffeinated, finish devotionals.
Stomach bloated with eggs, bacon, hashbrowns.
pontifications and rants on FB completed.
Pausing . . . listening . . . watching the minute hand
ticking away seconds on the wall clock.
Blessings and gratitude abound.
Not huddled in a Ukrainian shelter.
Not hiding in a store as an assassin blasts innocents away.
Not shock-waved in a massive street fair explosion.
We plan to drive to our beloved kids’ feast, trek through
a Toy Story landfill layered with dolls, musical keyboards,
animal sound books—dodging a mine field of Legos
unless . . . on a street intersection as I zoom through
a caution light, radio blaring with Xmas music, yakking,
an impatient soul guns his across as his clicks green
and targets us broadside . . . just thinking.
Soon we’ll mix cranberry-berry sauce, apple, tangerine,
banana chunks, shredded coconut, whipped cream,
and top it with powdered nutmeg.