Between All Hallow's and Christmas
Lies a holiday in danger
Of losing all
Of its once cherished meaning.
In times past,
When life depended
Upon the bounties of
Water, harvest, and game,
Our ancestors were grateful
For every morsel, every drink,
And every good fortune
Their God gave them,
For, more so than now,
There were no promises
Of plenty.
Many said grace at every meal,
Others gave thanks
At the ends of their day,
While still others
Thanked the Good Lord
For every blessing
Whenever they received it.
Today, some still do this,
Particularly on Thanksgiving,
But I wonder
Are their thanks sincerely meant?
Or are they merely a nod
Toward tradition, or perhaps
Because it is something
They are expected to do?
Do the words still mean anything?
Do those fortunate enough
To bemoan their overfull bellies
And the mountain of dirty dishes
Following their epic meal,
Not to mention
The fumbles and interceptions
Of a day full of football,
Understand how blessed
They really are
To be able to eat,
To drink, and
To recreate
And suspend their worries
For the future
In the face
Of daily largesse?
Perhaps this is the time
To look out into the world
And see those
Whose haunted eyes
And wasted bodies
Give evidence
Of how meaningless the football,
The dishes,
And even the overfull bellies,
Truly are
In the face of genuine misfortune.

November 6, 2016