In Time for the Feast
Nine degrees and sunny.
If you can stand the cold, it is a beautiful day.
Blue skies. Bright sun. Not a wisp of wind.
Postcard weather. All the tourists gone inside.
The landscape on display.
It is nearly a holiday. The world is traveling.
Not you. You are in place, happy to be thankful
where you are. Happy for the simplicity
of here. Now. Even the past
with its collection of missteps and madness.
All of it.
The lessons and scars are part of your celebration.
Not just the survival. Nearly everyone survives.
It is a matter of how. And with how much grace.
What is planted in the burned fields.
What is nourished. What grows.
And how long before the harvest.
Does it come before starvation,
or too late, afterwards? I have been fortunate,
fed, nurtured by a quirky Karma
who delights in mixed messages,
but always, always, leads me
to the thanksgiving table
just in time for the feast.
About this poem.
A simple poem of Thanksgiving for my interesting life. Good and bad alike, and the moment of time I am in today.
The picture was taken near Poultney, Vermont.