The snow is falling,
like an hour glass,
it falls through time.
The seasons are stitched together,
life becoming a quilt.
The snow lies on its bed
with a black embroidery,
near the pillows
where we can hear the silence,
feel the solitude as it
falls in sleep,
while the room watches.
So the seasons change, singing.
The shore of a garden.
The giant shell of the moon
gray and wet on the sand.
Baskets inside life.
Fruit and nuts and candied flowers,
sausages and fresh loaves
on the table.
And a little boy returns
surprising me again
as he looks at the food,
the colored paper,
the dishes from the back
of the cupboard,
seeing Thanksgiving.
Pies on the table,
remembering last year
and the harvest of all the years,
with dreams of Indians and pilgrims.
Then he vanishes,
and I go about my work
happy he has returned
to be with me on Thanksgiving.