It is too pleasing.
I tried to work Thanksgiving at the soup kitchen
though I waited too long and they didn’t need me.
I whittled Thanksgiving away reading;
waiting for the big bus to come and scatter
the dull yellow patterans that had repaved the road
and waiting for the time to kill Thanksgiving,
to knock it out of the air
as the wind blows squirrel’s nest leaves
out of the tree.
Winter is the season for the dead,
remembering, as in the mass at Halloween,
the dead in our prayers,
Christmas comes in it: the splendid ceremony
of thanksgiving and harvest.
Listening to the sermon today, the Sunday after Thanksgiving,
the songs took my breath away;
the ceiling of the church grew lighter.
I imagined how we may exist as one Body,
but I was suppressed by pain
he noise of babies crying at the front of the church.
That is why they baptize babies.
Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page April 27, 2019