As we gather for Thanksgiving, we enter the paradise of family and friends, the sacred and unique place we hold–physically and spiritually–for all those with whom we are most grateful. We remember those who are no longer with us, feeling blessed for their presence. And in spite of a landscape of leafless trees and frozen ground, we remember greener days and the world as it was intended. 

Paradise

At dawn, frost sheaths the milkweed

and shells of wild parsnip that edge the road.

It shrouds the hay fields,

graying the glory and bright treble notes

of summer.

A lovelier garden winters beyond me.

Its iron gate has closed upon

the Columbine and poppies,

the bluebells and lilies.

In the silence, I listen for familiar songs,

but they are cloistered among the growing,

garden things.

They weave themselves into staffs of grace,

their major and minor souls lilting

sempre dolce.

This is the way it was intended:

Mayapple and melody;

the persistent descant of willow and yarrow;

clear notes of freesia, fuchsia, and phlox;

a profusion of green with rich, red fruit

at the center.

But here, the trees quiver in the wind,

their bones dark and exposed.

In the sky, the sun kneels

in pale submission, and my breath erupts

frozen and freed into the morning air.

Still, I place my hands on the iron rungs

and push.

There, my heart steps—trembling—

into paradise.