Early Thanksgiving

Trudging through fallen leaves, we rounded the corner and there they were. Cherries. Or something that looked like cherries.

The tree was hung with them. So full.

And all we could do was stand still, in the cool air, on a grey day, and stare.


The Thanksgiving Tree, in soft pastels, by L.L. Barkat

Grace Table

I come to Your table, out in the little woods.

All is present here. Needles fallen, bronze, gone to earth, mouldering as day fades. And the leaves of maple so lately yellow, now brown and too disintegrating. The asters, white with seed like down, have lost their supple bend and sway.

But the hemlocks dance in the sharp breeze, evergreen, as does the pine. Wood-winged bushes reach, half-dressed in peach and yellow tongues of fire. Spirit licked. The dog next door is filled with zeal, barking, wagging at noisy birds.

I come to Your table, out in the little woods.

All is present here. The loss of a year, the hope of a spring. Sorrow and joy. Death and life. Spread thick over the ivy and the earth.

Thanksgiving comes soon, I think. And then, Let my table be as Yours.


(Do you have a Thanksgiving prayer or reflection? Come share it at the Thanksgiving Celebration.)