Thanksgivings
My father, too, knew dooms of love.
When I squint my eyes, I can nearly see him shining here.
The snow will show its ghostly roots.
Winter birds assault the cold with griefs of joy.
It’s the coming home that twilight would rejoice.
But it’s never safe to live only for my father’s dream.
The table’s spreading seems to suggest the world’s as right as rain.
It’s community is more than enough to fill the spirit against the dark.
As children we hope to wake into a world of snow.
As adults at best concede to be as sure of spring.
I am not one born or raised to doubt a mind.
Or scoff myself the subtleties of old, dumb death.
There are things, my friend, we’ll never know, least as truth.
And, William, that uncertainty’s the whole, and more than all.
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Ahhhhh! I was just thinking about/talking about "my father moved through dooms of love" this week! Craziness!
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you've kept up with the challenge. It's inspired me to try my hardest to finish a poem over Thanksgiving. I've got too many little bits that have been left unattended for too long.
Happy Turkey Day!!!