Thanksgiving in Middle Age
Grandfather’s body gathers rain
As leaves fall from the maple,
Sodden mass with crimson veins.
I avoid them if I’m able.
I smell the pine trees’ wintering
Even in your underthings.
In morning bed there is no loss.
Sun shines in to spurn us.
Outside the loam and leaves and moss.
Nobody will mourn us.
Come my love and kiss me once.
Let this be our small séance.
Later we’ll feast on corn and beans,
The turkey that we did not kill;
We’ll feast on these and other things,
As all couples will.
Before the food, the grace and hands
Pretending that God understands.
But come my love and kiss me now:
The season’s come to reap not plow.