Thanksgiving
I picture you happy
and at the shore.
Just a short walk
from the once fashionable resort
you may remember visiting
years and years ago.
It is off-season and
the corduroy jacket
you have worn forever
is not quite warm enough.
You hug it to you
with reddened hands–
a poor replacement
for the large brown buttons
you have never found
in all those years
of thrift store meanderings.
The storm that cat- whorled through,
as if confirming the season’s demise,
has left the beach and small pier
you stand above in artless disarray.
A sailboat has been lifted from its mooring
and left upon the beach,
like the plaything of a distracted child.
The waves will take some hours
to quiet and the air retains
the faint taste of ozone,
that brings a sharpness to your senses.
The red in the distant, cloud-free sky
promises a particularly fine morning.
It will break both clean and crisp.
I picture you happy.
I picture you
easy in anticipation.
The old coat slips
open, exposing
a lining matted
and yellowed with age.
Once again you glance
at your watch,
as if surprised to find it on your wrist.
A fine watch
of timeless design–
a gift perhaps from someone
who knew you
when such things mattered.
I picture your smile.
A fine smile—
a gift to those
who, over time, have cared for you.
Do you remember when that friend–
the one you have not quite forgotten,
said you smiled through your eyes?
I picture some good thing
coming this way for you.
Soon. Indeed,
in my picture,
it has already set out.
Wonderful, Steve. Thank you. Happy Thanksgiving to you too.
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Happy Thanksgiving
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