A THANKFUL HEART

On the porch beneath a clabbered sky

I watch the day turn gold and slip away,

while gray squirrels rustle through leaves 

browning beneath the big hackberry, and 

chilled air carries a hint of woodsmoke.

Somewhere well upstream, geese are 

honking on the wing, sharp yelps 

marking their homeward passage 

through twilight's steady gathering.

Another unveiled autumn plays out

as we rest in mild circadian confusion,

aware—though circumspect 

in our affected silence—that November 

will run its course and winter waits ahead.

Doesn't winter always wait ahead?

Isn't the still season of ice and cold and 

keening wind always where years take us?

Is that why we make the time during

autumn's summation to gather 'round 

a familiar table, bow our heads, and

declare our thanks before having our feast?

Do we celebrate in gratitude or prudence,

mindful that our lot is good, yet uneasy 

we might have claimed too much credit

for the cornucopia we're about to enjoy?

The river is the color of old pewter in 

the waning light, divided into many 

small channels—a shredded ribbon, 

whispering as it finds it way between stones.

Such beauty. And there, in the quiet eventide, 

with a full moon rising to light the night, 

I recount my blessings before the holy stars—

and pray I might always keep a thankful heart.   

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