SOMEWHERE IT’S ALWAYS THANKSGIVING
Last night when I crawled into bed and switched off the light,
too tired to read, too tired for an audio book on low volume even,
I said what I called my evening prayer, which is more of a recap
of the day and a short run down of all I should be thankful for.
I recalled how the day had blown by; more wind and chaff
than wheat spread on a sheet at my knees. I made a vow that
tomorrow I’d take a moment to put the rush of the day on hold,
pause for even a moment to scratch the dog’s ears, the two of us
in the backyard below the wet moon in the still dripping rain.
This would be the exact minute that I suck the air into my lungs.
We’re alive my boy, I say to him, and he nuzzles me with his
great nose and searches my face with his honey eyes.
We’ve only got a moment I say to him, and then tomorrow
it’s someone else in this same backyard with the same dogwood
we planted, drawing in its sap for the winter, protecting
the heartwood for another someone’s spring. But he already
understands all this. It’s why his eyes are so warm, so completely
given over to the one wish that matters. Ok, my boy, it’s ok.
—from Poets Respond
__________
Al Ortolani: “I write a lot of poems about my dog. Some are mushy if not downright maudlin. Maybe it’s a flaw in my character, one I can attribute to my age. As a kid, I never cared much for Thanksgiving. Except for apple pie, I considered it boring. The holiday means more to me today. I still don’t care much for turkey, and no one has mastered grandmother’s apple pie recipe, but that’s not the point. Is it?”
