Thanksgiving 2018 Poem

When chop, chunk, clunk the axe
Upon felled wood at corncribs back,
Does echo off the forest wall
with Pileated’s staccato call
There is sense, a feel, a way
That says here comes a holiday.
And yet up from the lane does drive
Across the gravel up through the creek
The van, the truck the car arrives
With cheery faces, crimson cheeks.
They pour from autos, arms a-wrapped
‘round steaming bowls and turkey sacks .
The wood smoke wafts, a silver silk
and farm cats tails curl round your calf,
the babies smell of powder and milk,
and grandpas grin and mothers laugh
and all the folks family parade
around the yard and make their way
and then the tide of relatives pours
cross the patio and then indoors.
And holding back a moment I,
catch myself and stand and sigh
and watching unfold through kitchen glass
this timeless play of holiday pass,
I cannot help but raise a prayer
To be right there, at home, right there.

--Dolan Geiman, 11/22/18

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