This morning
I watched the falling pomegranate leaves
flutter and dance in a gust of cool wind,
before they collapsed
to the ground,
the sunshine was slanting in sideways
on the yellow of Autumn's dirge,
the end of November is bittersweet.

The garden is scrubby and wan,
the corn stalks, beige and bent,
harvested, the ground is dry and cold.
I think of Native Americans, digging holes,
dropping in a fish, some dirt,
and the precious seeds of maize,
winter's life, kernalized gold.

I think of newcomers, to a perilous land,
and hardships, and the reach
of strong hands across oceans of thought,
to help our forefathers,
the willingness to connect
to strangness.

And I realize the depths of thanks,
given to my life, have it's history
in humanity.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 11/22/02