Poetry Friday

Thanksgiving
 
I have been trying to read 
the script cut in these hills- 
a language carved in the shimmer of stubble 
and the solid lines of soil, spoken 
in the thud of apples falling 
and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.
 
The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak 
as they gather in the fallen grain, 
the blackbirds sing it 
over their shoulders in parting, 
and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript 
where it is written in the trees.
 
Transcribed onto my human tongue 
I believe it might sound like a lullaby, 
or the simplest grace at table. 
Across the gathering stillness 
simply this: “For all that we have received, 
dear God, make us truly grateful.”

~ Lynn Ungar ~
 
(Blessing the Bread)