by Johanna Donovan
The willow’s leaf-drops silver
the asphalt, mingle with the star-light
of fallen oak leaves. There is no bird
song but Zoe’s collar tags jingle joy
beside me. She’s thankful for the walk.
My loves are scattered like dandelion
bracts in the wind. In Eldorado Springs,
the eldest bastes turkeys for thirty
as I remember him at seven, his eyes
shining new friends. Our daughter drives
to a New Jersey airport to collect
an Italian beau discovered on a Greek
island (My nightmares fence with great
expectations). The youngest rides
a downdraft, thankful that I will not
make him partake of the in-laws’ turkey
with extra servings of mashed
queries and green dreams. Or should I
make him? My husband endures his
fifteenth Thanksgiving away from all
of us though he has never complained.
This day and every other, I give
thanks for us even as we occupy
our varied climes, and for this passion
to record, which peels the skin
from my eyes and warms me
like a shawl on winter shoulders.
Johanna Donovan is a transplanted Swiss who lives in New England.