adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Feast, a poem


It is what it is and I could
be thankful or I could curse
all the days until now and all
the days that stretch ahead
and it will be what it will be
as it was what it was. A feast
has its chewed bones and the dog
will be thankful for those.

But I indulge myself, this day, no
more than any other. It is not
my way to heap high my plate
nor to return for seconds. Let
the strangers at my table replace
themselves, year by year, each like
the one before, and who they are
is who they are. I toast them all.

See how the dark meat and the white
have been divided, platters of take-your-choice,
make-your-choice, cut carefully
from the carcass of time. There is
never enough time, they say, nor thyme
in this stuffing to become fully
seasoned. Feast on these, giving
thanks that it is what it is.

Stephen Brooke ©2012

The annual 'thanksgiving' poem. I don't have any strong feelings one way or the other about this holiday but it does seem to bring out a certain amount of introspection. Yes, even more than usual.

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