Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

Sleep and stillness cling to my eyes.

morning light trickles through pine branches

into the kitchen where yeast has raised 

soft pillows of dough overnight.

I slide the fragrance of warm yeast

into the waiting oven.

I kept the fire going last night

to coddle the dough,

to be kind to myself.

Now I sit at the window as early fog lifts

in wisps and sip tea.

The world here is quiet, aside from

the faucet dripping and the ping of

the oven as it heats.

Strong tea mingles with the aroma of

rising dough.

Do we not all rise with some redemption,

new each morning?

In other homes people are moving toward family gatherings 

or waking to a jumble of legs and arms in unfamiliar beds

while I sit with my ancestors baking this bread.

I receive the old ones and the fragrance and the taste.

I listen to the small kitchen sounds against the quiet outside,-

the complete stillness of each branch and leaf,

the warm cup in my hand.

May you and yours be warm, even as the snow flies tonight.

About elainereardon

Poet, writer, gardener, herbalist, pottery, painting—bumping into magic, peeking around new corners.
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