Category Archives: Thanksgiving

INTO THE DELTA: Chapter 18 – Henry & Minnie

Thanksgiving Day, 1927

HENRY

Henry looked down the long table. Minnie sat at the other end and beamed, as well she should. Her auburn hair was a glowing halo. Arrayed between the two of them were the blessings of their life together. All eight of their children, even Sadie who had made it home from Greenville, and his parents sat between them: Grady, Morris Bailey, Sadie, Willye, and Father down one side, Maurice, Lucille, Dick, Jim, and Mother down the other.

Their children continued to amaze him. Eight fine children from Grady at 22 years of age all the way down to Little Jim who had just turned two. Four boys and four girls. The older ones tall, lean, alert, and intelligent, the younger ones bright and precocious. All of the girls had their mother’s wavy hair, although Maurice’s and Lucille’s was dark like his, Sadie’s and Willye’s lighter like their mother’s. Morris Bailey’s hair was wavy too, but Grady and Dick had his straight dark hair. Jim’s was straight too and would probably darken as he grew up. Interesting, he thought, how each child reflected different features of Minnie and himself. And not simply looks but personalities.

The late afternoon rays of the sun, pale and white, slanted in through the windows. The golden flicker of candles and kerosene lamps bathed everything in a warm, shimmering light that burnished the autumnal colors of the laden table: the glistening chestnut browns of baked chicken and duck, the grayish-brown butter beans and black-eyed peas, the deep greens of the snap beans and sweet pickles, the creamy golds of squash and creamed corn and one his special favorites, pickled peaches rich with cloves floating in the brine, the tarnished gold of cornbread and dressing, the russet hues of sweet potatoes. The buffet was covered with peach and blackberry cobblers; pecan, mincemeat, and apple pies; and Minnie’s special nutbread.

It had been a hard year, beyond a doubt the hardest of their lives. Not only the high water but the unseasonable cold, the days and days of overcast skies that had shattered hopes of a good cotton crop. But they had been lucky, no, blessed, to come through it as well as they had. Thousands of less fortunate farmers and their families in Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Missouri, even Illinois, Tennessee, Kentucky, Oklahoma, and Texas, had been completely flooded out. The waters hadn’t begun to recede until August, and as expected, the cotton crop had been poor.

He had never worried about his family going hungry, but there were other families on the place, farmhands who needed to be paid, and the last thing he wanted to do was have to let any of them go. But the big thing, the thing that hung over everything, was his yearly note. And thank the Lord, he had that set aside now and probably enough to begin planting next year without having to borrow money. That alone was a burden lifted. Today they would devote completely to being thankful.

He caught Minnie’s eye and smiled. She smiled back, a smile of pure, unadulterated contentment.

“Let’s bow our heads,” he said with a nod.

Each head bowed as hand reached and clutched for hand until all were joined. He thanked God for all they had and prayed for those who had less, prayed for family far away, asked God for protection and strength in the days to come and prayed that all that they did might be done in His name and to His glory.

A soft chorus of “Amens” followed his own and with a final squeeze, hands were dropped, and a happy chatter of voices erupted. Spoon clattered against bowl as plates were filled and dishes were passed. The first cool weather had arrived, and a blast of north wind rattled the windows, but inside it was warm, an embracing warmth redolent with the aroma of all the cooking that Minnie and his mother and the girls had done.

Between bites Sadie shared her experiences in Greenville as the waters rose and the levees were breached and thousands struggled day and night to keep the waters at bay and thousands who were flooded out flocked to any high ground they could find. All of the student nurses at King’s Daughters’ had rendered aid. As proud as he was of his daughter, he was even more thankful that she was back home for a few days and safe.

Morris Bailey followed with his escapades looking for George and his family, all of whom were gathered at the King place, even those working on the Mitchener place.

He leaned back in his chair and simply looked and listened. He felt like he was observing the entire tableau from some point outside of his own body. There was a sudden thickness in his throat and his eyes felt damp. How did the fifth son of a hill country farmer end up sitting at the head of this table, on this huge place so wonderfully named Friendship? What did I do to deserve something so wonderful, so precious? Nothing, nothing at all, he decided. No more than he deserved Jesus Christ’s promise of salvation. Oh, he and his family had supplied the hard work, but God in his infinite wisdom had provided the blessing.

The clatter of a utensil on the hardwood floor – Little Jim had dropped his spoon – broke into his reverie, and for this he was thankful too. It reminded him that it wasn’t just the big things. It was his two-year-old son waving his fat little arms and laughing at his lost spoon and his beautiful wife filling the little hand with her own spoon. He smiled again and picked up his fork.

 

Henry set his coffee cup and saucer on his desk and settled into his chair. He had eaten too much but had enjoyed every bite. Father, Grady, and Morris Bailey followed him, each with their own cups which they set on the edge of his desk before taking their seats.

The faint sound of female voices and clatter of crockery filtered in from the kitchen.

He slid his tin of Carter Hall across the desk and Father filled his pipe and passed the tin back.

“Have enough to eat?” he asked.

“Too stuffed to jump,” Father replied as he stuck a wooden match and bathed the bowl of tobacco in flame. Blue smoke curled around Father’s head.

“Becky’s a fine cook, and Minnie too,” his father added. “That was a feast beyond measure.”

“The girls too,” Morris Bailey said, not even looking up as he rolled his cigarette. “I saw Lucille making the pickled peaches.”

Scamp, he thought, he knows my weakness for those things.

“No two ways about it,” Father replied. “We are blessed. Especially the way this year has gone.”

Father looked at him across the desk. “That was a good idea planting more corn and hay than usual.”

“Sure was,” Grady agreed. “Corn prices were up, too.”

“And cotton prices, too. Way up, for those who could make a crop,” Morris Bailey chimed in.

They had planted their cotton late, everyone had, and were still picking. He lit his own pipe now that it was filled.

“There’s no doubt that the corn saved us,” he said. We’ll get decent cotton, but I’m glad we had an ace in the hole.”

He reached into the bottom right desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey that his brother Burton had given him the last time he had dropped by. God only knew where Burton got bonded whiskey during Prohibition. He had never asked.

He lifted the bottle of amber liquid. It was almost full. Minnie had a china cup with a broken handle that fit inside of her ring-shaped nutbread. As usual, she had half-filled the cup and sealed everything in a tin until the whiskey had all evaporated.

He pulled the cork and splashed a bit into each of their four cups of coffee.

All four men lifted their cups.

“Here’s to making it through another season,” he offered. “God Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, next year will be better.”

“Here. Here,” the others responded.

“Particularly if the creek don’t rise,” Father added.

He replaced the bottle in the drawer and looked up at the sound of children’s voices. Dick flashed by the window with Lucille in pursuit, squealing. No telling what that rascal had done now.

He stared into the fading light. Lights flickered from the few houses he could see, and he knew that even in the ones he couldn’t see, that the hands on the place, his place, white and colored, had plenty to eat. And plenty to be thankful for: they had weathered a challenging year too, and it had taken all of them pulling together.

Any hand on the place was welcome to use a mule, plow, and free seed from the Commissary to put in a garden. All of them did, and many kept a chicken or two. Nevertheless, Minnie’s own flocks were robust, and at her suggestion, each family were given a hen or duck to bake for Thanksgiving. So like her, and that too, gave him a sense of satisfaction. He valued the hands on the place. They worked harder than anyone, and now that he had the responsible, hard-working hands he needed, he wanted to keep them.

He turned back and looked around the room. Grady was 22 years old now, Morris Bailey 20. He idly wondered, for the umpteenth time, when he might lose one or both of them to marriage or some life other than farming. Friendship Plantation was large enough to support them all and their families should they be so blessed. Nevertheless …

Morris Bailey interrupted his wool-gathering. “Can you believe it. We’re down here fighting rising water, and up in New York they just opened a tunnel UNDER the Hudson River.”

Father leaned back and let pipe smoke drift from his mouth. “I read in the paper the other day that they figure over 27,000 square miles were under water and over 700,000 folks flooded out. No telling how many folks dead. They say at least 500, but I’ll wager it’s a whole lot more. Bodies that’ll never be found.”

The room was silent for a moment. Father shook his head slowly. “Funny thing is,” he continued, “how the world keeps on turning and other folks in other places keep on going about their lives, sometimes doing amazing things, while other folks are struggling. Always been that way, I reckon.”

“Like flying across the Atlantic Ocean solo like Lindbergh did?” Grady asked. He couldn’t help but notice the dreamy look in his son’s eyes.

“Exactly like that,” Father replied. “Why, I remember the first airplane I ever saw. Other than in pictures. Bet you and your father do too. Was 1912. Some feller landed at the Choctaw County Fair in the flimsiest looking contraption I ever saw. Sold rides. Not that I would have gone up in one of those things for love or money.”

“I would have,” Grady blurted out.

Everyone stared at the tall, serious young man.

“Maybe someday,” Grady added, then realized that all eyes were on him.

Morris Bailey opened his mouth to speak, but Grady, slightly abashed, spoke first. “But the most important thing is getting a good crop of cotton in next year.”

Everyone agreed, and he peered at his first-born wondering what he might say next.

Grady paused and continued. “It’s a hard crop, cotton. Maybe the hardest. Not like corn or hay that you mostly just plant and let grow. So many things have to go right for nearly half a year to get a good crop. So many warm, sunny days, enough but not too much rain, dry weather for picking. There’s simply so much that can go wrong. I know it makes good money for us, the best, but more than that, there is something satisfying about raising cotton. Maybe it’s the tending, the coaxing, the tilling and turning, the chopping, and finally the picking.”

“I didn’t know you could be so philosophical, Big Brother,” Morris Bailey teased.

Grady shot his brother a sharp glance.

He looked at Grady and said, “I know just what you mean, Son. You might not be able to eat cotton, but there is something deeply satisfying about bringing that crop in , about looking out over those fields when they are a blanket of white so bright in the sun that it hurts your eyes. Maybe it’s all the extra effort that makes it mean more.”

He raised his cup again. “To cotton, King Cotton. And to Friendship Plantation and the Catledges.”

And to my son the farmer, he added silently.

 

MINNIE

She was unpinning and brushing out her hair when Henry entered their bedroom.

“Tired?” he asked from the doorway.

She looked at his reflection in her mirror. “Yes, but thankful. The girls are so helpful, your mother too, of course. And Essie Mae.”

He crossed the room and placed one of his large hands on each of her shoulders. She leaned her head against his right hand and looked up at his reflection from the corner of her eyes.

“Well, it was certainly delicious. I enjoyed every bite. Thank you,” Henry said and kissed the top of her head.

She scooted to one side and he sat beside her on her seat. They looked into each other’s eyes in the mirror.

“I am headed to the bank in Sumner tomorrow. I’ll be depositing the money we will need for this year’s payment to the Fergusons,” he said softly.

“Thank goodness,” she sighed. “More to be thankful for.”

She resumed brushing out her hair, and he leaned close, inhaling deeply and sighing.

“I smell like baking,” she said. “And perspiration.”

“You smell like you, your skin and the soap you wash with. It is just you.”

She leaned away and looked into his dark, dark eyes. He read the question in her own eyes.

“Yes, it was a near run thing this season, but we are alright. Will be for another year, another crop.”

She leaned back against him, and he wrapped both arms around her, pulling her even closer.

“That’s all I wanted to know. All I need to know. I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he said and kissed her. “Of all I have for which to be thankful, I am thankful most of all for you.”

She didn’t realize she had dropped her hairbrush as wrapped both arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

“Oh, Henry,” she whispered. “Me too.”

Thanksgiving Day, 1927

HENRY

Henry looked down the long table. Minnie sat at the other end and beamed, as well she should. Her auburn hair was a glowing halo. Arrayed between the two of them were the blessings of their life together. All eight of their children, even Sadie who had made it home from Greenville, and his parents sat between them: Grady, Morris Bailey, Sadie, Willye, and Father down one side, Maurice, Lucille, Dick, Jim, and Mother down the other.

Their children continued to amaze him. Eight fine children from Grady at 22 years of age all the way down to Little Jim who had just turned two. Four boys and four girls. The older ones tall, lean, alert, and intelligent, the younger ones bright and precocious. All of the girls had their mother’s wavy hair, although Maurice’s and Lucille’s was dark like his, Sadie’s and Willye’s lighter like their mother’s. Morris Bailey’s hair was wavy too, but Grady and Dick had his straight dark hair. Jim’s was straight too and would probably darken as he grew up. Interesting, he thought, how each child reflected different features of Minnie and himself. And not simply looks but personalities.

The late afternoon rays of the sun, pale and white, slanted in through the windows. The golden flicker of candles and kerosene lamps bathed everything in a warm, shimmering light that burnished the autumnal colors of the laden table: the glistening chestnut browns of baked chicken and duck, the grayish-brown butter beans and black-eyed peas, the deep greens of the snap beans and sweet pickles, the creamy golds of squash and creamed corn and one his special favorites, pickled peaches rich with cloves floating in the brine, the tarnished gold of cornbread and dressing, the russet hues of sweet potatoes. The buffet was covered with peach and blackberry cobblers; pecan, mincemeat, and apple pies; and Minnie’s special nutbread.

It had been a hard year, beyond a doubt the hardest of their lives. Not only the high water but the unseasonable cold, the days and days of overcast skies that had shattered hopes of a good cotton crop. But they had been lucky, no, blessed, to come through it as well as they had. Thousands of less fortunate farmers and their families in Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Missouri, even Illinois, Tennessee, Kentucky, Oklahoma, and Texas, had been completely flooded out. The waters hadn’t begun to recede until August, and as expected, the cotton crop had been poor.

He had never worried about his family going hungry, but there were other families on the place, farmhands who needed to be paid, and the last thing he wanted to do was have to let any of them go. But the big thing, the thing that hung over everything, was his yearly note. And thank the Lord, he had that set aside now and probably enough to begin planting next year without having to borrow money. That alone was a burden lifted. Today they would devote completely to being thankful.

He caught Minnie’s eye and smiled. She smiled back, a smile of pure, unadulterated contentment.

“Let’s bow our heads,” he said with a nod.

Each head bowed as hand reached and clutched for hand until all were joined. He thanked God for all they had and prayed for those who had less, prayed for family far away, asked God for protection and strength in the days to come and prayed that all that they did might be done in His name and to His glory.

A soft chorus of “Amens” followed his own and with a final squeeze, hands were dropped, and a happy chatter of voices erupted. Spoon clattered against bowl as plates were filled and dishes were passed. The first cool weather had arrived, and a blast of north wind rattled the windows, but inside it was warm, an embracing warmth redolent with the aroma of all the cooking that Minnie and his mother and the girls had done.

Between bites Sadie shared her experiences in Greenville as the waters rose and the levees were breached and thousands struggled day and night to keep the waters at bay and thousands who were flooded out flocked to any high ground they could find. All of the student nurses at King’s Daughters’ had rendered aid. As proud as he was of his daughter, he was even more thankful that she was back home for a few days and safe.

Morris Bailey followed with his escapades looking for George and his family, all of whom were gathered at the King place, even those working on the Mitchener place.

He leaned back in his chair and simply looked and listened. He felt like he was observing the entire tableau from some point outside of his own body. There was a sudden thickness in his throat and his eyes felt damp. How did the fifth son of a hill country farmer end up sitting at the head of this table, on this huge place so wonderfully named Friendship? What did I do to deserve something so wonderful, so precious? Nothing, nothing at all, he decided. No more than he deserved Jesus Christ’s promise of salvation. Oh, he and his family had supplied the hard work, but God in his infinite wisdom had provided the blessing.

The clatter of a utensil on the hardwood floor – Little Jim had dropped his spoon – broke into his reverie, and for this he was thankful too. It reminded him that it wasn’t just the big things. It was his two-year-old son waving his fat little arms and laughing at his lost spoon and his beautiful wife filling the little hand with her own spoon. He smiled again and picked up his fork.

 

Henry set his coffee cup and saucer on his desk and settled into his chair. He had eaten too much but had enjoyed every bite. Father, Grady, and Morris Bailey followed him, each with their own cups which they set on the edge of his desk before taking their seats.

The faint sound of female voices and clatter of crockery filtered in from the kitchen.

He slid his tin of Carter Hall across the desk and Father filled his pipe and passed the tin back.

“Have enough to eat?” he asked.

“Too stuffed to jump,” Father replied as he stuck a wooden match and bathed the bowl of tobacco in flame. Blue smoke curled around Father’s head.

“Becky’s a fine cook, and Minnie too,” his father added. “That was a feast beyond measure.”

“The girls too,” Morris Bailey said, not even looking up as he rolled his cigarette. “I saw Lucille making the pickled peaches.”

Scamp, he thought, he knows my weakness for those things.

“No two ways about it,” Father replied. “We are blessed. Especially the way this year has gone.”

Father looked at him across the desk. “That was a good idea planting more corn and hay than usual.”

“Sure was,” Grady agreed. “Corn prices were up, too.”

“And cotton prices, too. Way up, for those who could make a crop,” Morris Bailey chimed in.

They had planted their cotton late, everyone had, and were still picking. He lit his own pipe now that it was filled.

“There’s no doubt that the corn saved us,” he said. We’ll get decent cotton, but I’m glad we had an ace in the hole.”

He reached into the bottom right desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey that his brother Burton had given him the last time he had dropped by. God only knew where Burton got bonded whiskey during Prohibition. He had never asked.

He lifted the bottle of amber liquid. It was almost full. Minnie had a china cup with a broken handle that fit inside of her ring-shaped nutbread. As usual, she had half-filled the cup and sealed everything in a tin until the whiskey had all evaporated.

He pulled the cork and splashed a bit into each of their four cups of coffee.

All four men lifted their cups.

“Here’s to making it through another season,” he offered. “God Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, next year will be better.”

“Here. Here,” the others responded.

“Particularly if the creek don’t rise,” Father added.

He replaced the bottle in the drawer and looked up at the sound of children’s voices. Dick flashed by the window with Lucille in pursuit, squealing. No telling what that rascal had done now.

He stared into the fading light. Lights flickered from the few houses he could see, and he knew that even in the ones he couldn’t see, that the hands on the place, his place, white and colored, had plenty to eat. And plenty to be thankful for: they had weathered a challenging year too, and it had taken all of them pulling together.

Any hand on the place was welcome to use a mule, plow, and free seed from the Commissary to put in a garden. All of them did, and many kept a chicken or two. Nevertheless, Minnie’s own flocks were robust, and at her suggestion, each family were given a hen or duck to bake for Thanksgiving. So like her, and that too, gave him a sense of satisfaction. He valued the hands on the place. They worked harder than anyone, and now that he had the responsible, hard-working hands he needed, he wanted to keep them.

He turned back and looked around the room. Grady was 22 years old now, Morris Bailey 20. He idly wondered, for the umpteenth time, when he might lose one or both of them to marriage or some life other than farming. Friendship Plantation was large enough to support them all and their families should they be so blessed. Nevertheless …

Morris Bailey interrupted his wool-gathering. “Can you believe it. We’re down here fighting rising water, and up in New York they just opened a tunnel UNDER the Hudson River.”

Father leaned back and let pipe smoke drift from his mouth. “I read in the paper the other day that they figure over 27,000 square miles were under water and over 700,000 folks flooded out. No telling how many folks dead. They say at least 500, but I’ll wager it’s a whole lot more. Bodies that’ll never be found.”

The room was silent for a moment. Father shook his head slowly. “Funny thing is,” he continued, “how the world keeps on turning and other folks in other places keep on going about their lives, sometimes doing amazing things, while other folks are struggling. Always been that way, I reckon.”

“Like flying across the Atlantic Ocean solo like Lindbergh did?” Grady asked. He couldn’t help but notice the dreamy look in his son’s eyes.

“Exactly like that,” Father replied. “Why, I remember the first airplane I ever saw. Other than in pictures. Bet you and your father do too. Was 1912. Some feller landed at the Choctaw County Fair in the flimsiest looking contraption I ever saw. Sold rides. Not that I would have gone up in one of those things for love or money.”

“I would have,” Grady blurted out.

Everyone stared at the tall, serious young man.

“Maybe someday,” Grady added, then realized that all eyes were on him.

Morris Bailey opened his mouth to speak, but Grady, slightly abashed, spoke first. “But the most important thing is getting a good crop of cotton in next year.”

Everyone agreed, and he peered at his first-born wondering what he might say next.

Grady paused and continued. “It’s a hard crop, cotton. Maybe the hardest. Not like corn or hay that you mostly just plant and let grow. So many things have to go right for nearly half a year to get a good crop. So many warm, sunny days, enough but not too much rain, dry weather for picking. There’s simply so much that can go wrong. I know it makes good money for us, the best, but more than that, there is something satisfying about raising cotton. Maybe it’s the tending, the coaxing, the tilling and turning, the chopping, and finally the picking.”

“I didn’t know you could be so philosophical, Big Brother,” Morris Bailey teased.

Grady shot his brother a sharp glance.

He looked at Grady and said, “I know just what you mean, Son. You might not be able to eat cotton, but there is something deeply satisfying about bringing that crop in , about looking out over those fields when they are a blanket of white so bright in the sun that it hurts your eyes. Maybe it’s all the extra effort that makes it mean more.”

He raised his cup again. “To cotton, King Cotton. And to Friendship Plantation and the Catledges.”

And to my son the farmer, he added silently.

 

MINNIE

She was unpinning and brushing out her hair when Henry entered their bedroom.

“Tired?” he asked from the doorway.

She looked at his reflection in her mirror. “Yes, but thankful. The girls are so helpful, your mother too, of course. And Essie Mae.”

He crossed the room and placed one of his large hands on each of her shoulders. She leaned her head against his right hand and looked up at his reflection from the corner of her eyes.

“Well, it was certainly delicious. I enjoyed every bite. Thank you,” Henry said and kissed the top of her head.

She scooted to one side and he sat beside her on her seat. They looked into each other’s eyes in the mirror.

“I am headed to the bank in Sumner tomorrow. I’ll be depositing the money we will need for this year’s payment to the Fergusons,” he said softly.

“Thank goodness,” she sighed. “More to be thankful for.”

She resumed brushing out her hair, and he leaned close, inhaling deeply and sighing.

“I smell like baking,” she said. “And perspiration.”

“You smell like you, your skin and the soap you wash with. It is just you.”

She leaned away and looked into his dark, dark eyes. He read the question in her own eyes.

“Yes, it was a near run thing this season, but we are alright. Will be for another year, another crop.”

She leaned back against him, and he wrapped both arms around her, pulling her even closer.

“That’s all I wanted to know. All I need to know. I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he said and kissed her. “Of all I have for which to be thankful, I am thankful most of all for you.”

She didn’t realize she had dropped her hairbrush as wrapped both arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

“Oh, Henry,” she whispered. “Me too.”

Leave a comment

Filed under America, Autumn, Autumn, Cotton farming, Delta, Mississippi, Mississippi Delta, Thanksgiving

Late Afternoon, Thanksgiving Day

Late Afternoon, Thanksgiving Day

Late afternoon, Thanksgiving Day
5:09 post meridian to be exact
Exactitude unrequired yet oddly noted
Backyard air inert but tangible
Bereft of the just-set sun’s last rays
Yet holding the fading light of dying day
Lambent
Hovering among columns of dark trunks
Trapped under autumn’s lingering canopy
Glowing golds, riotous scarlets, exhausted browns
Still clinging to branch and twig
Waiting to fall and complete the carpet
On the still-verdant lawn
Already lightly covered since the last raking
All motionless in this moment’s preternatural calm
Until
One lone leaf falls
Carried on no current
Tumbling straight down
Like a tattered, dropped tissue
Then stillness again
Not a single leaf aflutter
Anywhere
Even in the upper reaches of the tallest trees
Air so still that it conveys no sound
If there were sound to convey
No breeze-whisper
No muffled bark of the dog two houses down or the one across the street
No sighing hiss of a passing car
Not even the faint laughter of children at play in the cul-de-sac
Absolute still and quiet
Then another leaf drops
Straight down like the first, silently
Yet another thing for which to be thankful
This silence, this stillness
After the familiar, well-loved faces and voices at table
Tables groaning with nature’s bounty
Even those distant brought near
By phone or photo and text
Family even beyond blood, bonds of love
But now, the quiet
Like a held breath
Fragile equipoise
This season of death, nature’s last rattling gasp against the life-sustaining bounty it has provided
Each day shorter than the last
For only four more weeks
Until that longest of nights
Until the sun begins its inevitable, inexorable march back north across the sky
Tracing the ancient analemma
Towards equinox, then solstice
Towards warmth and renewal and rebirth
The old familiar cycle
Its rhythm built into the heavens
Inherent in stalk and trunk, leaf and bough
Buried in sinew and bone
Subliminal
Comforting
Reassuring
Even as a third leaf falls
Straight down
Through still air

1 Comment

Filed under Autumn, Poetry, Thanksgiving, Uncategorized