Poets' Corner: Saying "Grace" For Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving marks the start of the holiday season. But times they a tryin’ – even without your parents breaking out the photos from your awkward years, even minus the inevitable food coma, soWord Woman Rosemerry Trommer suggests we simply stop, inhale – and smell the apple pie. It’s all about what we can control. Which may or may not be our weight. Or the weight of the world. We are, all in the end, in this together.
Though the world is dented and dinged
and scuffed and scorned,
we trim the beans and peel the potatoes,
and the kitchen is warm and full
of laughter. We hum as we work
and break into scraps of song.
All day our hands are joyful
as they prepare the meal to come.
Even now, there are wars and battles,
not all of them fought with guns,
some waged intimately in our thoughts,
our scraped up hearts. And still,
this scent of apple pie, sweetening
as it bakes, this inner insistence
that love is not only possible,
it is every bit as real as our fear.
Whether the host has brought
out his best wine and his best crystal glasses
or water in chipped clay cups,
there is every reason to be generous,
to serve not only our family, our friends, ourselves,
but also those we don’t yet know how to love
and those parts of ourselves we have tried
to keep separate. Tonight,
the host has hidden bait in the dinner—
we all are caught. Scent of sage,
scent of mushrooms and cream. The bite of cranberry.
Never mind the potatoes cooked too long.
Blessings seep into all the imperfect places,
even if you can’t name the blessings—
consider them secret ingredients.
The point is not to understand the feast,
but to eat, to eat it together.