Day 23: Ghazal for Gobblers

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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