Thanksgiving Sonnet
The tipping point at year’s eleventh hour I stop mid-rush to slice a piece of grace and raise a glass to beneficent power. Yet all this pausing keeps me from the chase of things more lovely and things simply more. I’m told I lack and so therefore I must buy the overflow of someone else’s store. Oh, for a barn that reaches to the sky! So high my thoughts, yet staring at the floor I see another world and wonder why my world, so rich, so full, became so small. In true thanksgiving, I must now adore an empty barn, a heart that cannot fly, and bleeding hands that hold my all in all.
Great poem--this is relatable, honest, and full of thanks.