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.