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Poem

Thanksgiving Dinner

How many more?
I asked myself, and answers
may be coming into focus with
the flimsy recollection
of that flock of chubby birds
each settling down a final time
upon audacious altars dedicated
to a gentle greed of some implied
profanity, but rubbed away by appetite
and invocational acknowledgement
of The Divine.

I hardly know them anymore, and yet
the love still circulates, (less inhibited perhaps) 
though somehow bourne in artifice
by the enlightenment of youth
and shrinking globe, the breadth
of which we now may fly with ease.

One guest I do not greet
with great affection, though I know him
well enough--the creeping thread
of age advances like the moss
upon a headstone, insideous
in its meandering through time
and unobtrusive as companion
to the slow decay beneath.

It's rather like a testamonial
to all the goings on
inside the little white
faith-steepled church
that guards it, also
to its little flock of souls surviving,
for they too must gather faithfully
around the great, and toothsome bird
content to rule today in silence there
among his retinue of entrements.

I think of Grandpa,
more than 50 years ago
there at the table's head--
now I must be the patriarch
and assume his place,
and yes, perhaps his imminent demise.
(Quite suddenly I realize
that's quite all right with me)

So what is the point
of all these memories?
I think we need them
just to salvage some significance,
or worse, to craft a fleeting and illusory
impression that a history 
in microscopic miniature somehow mattered
for a moment in this heavy crazy quilt
so solemnly laid down upon
a dusty speck among the stars.
        ~

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