2021 is sprinting to the end and thank God it is! It’s been a struggle, but we’re surviving as best we can. Now, we stand on the cusp of our Thanksgiving holiday in the States. The precursor to Christmas is almost nigh. So we are asked to write our obligatory “Thankful” poem … anything with the word THANK in the title or in the body of your poem would be greatly accepted! So, for Marie and myself, we tell you that we are very thankful for each and every one of you who share this ‘familial’ garden with us. We appreciate you to no end and consider you all family as well as friends. Happy Thanksgiving to all who will be celebrating. And Happy you’re with us moving forward! Be thankful!
Late, but here! 🙂 Rummaging Through Covid-19, and Finding Buts It began with head pain that made previous headaches pale, but it wasn’t the “alarming” head pain described by some. I slept 21-22 hours per day for the first three days, but I was able to sleep. It brought an engulfing fatigue, but energy is returning. A low-grade fever made me feel sickly, but it remained low-grade. I lost my ability to taste and smell, but found the crunch of a toasted bagel spread with pretty white creamy cheese strangely satisfying. Lockdown could have felt oppressively lonely, but the love of my life was with me. I was much sicker than he, but I could enjoy watching him plant spring flower bulbs. In isolation, depression could have decided to visit, but unseasonable warmth and sun visited instead, leaving depression no seat at the table. My brain and eyes could not read, but they are beginning to browse again. Writing poems became impossible. But here is one and, though it is not poetic, I am thankful it came to call. © Marie Elena Good, 2021
WALT’S THANKFUL POEM:
WORDS OF THANKS Friends gathered in celebration a family in tradition, a condition in which grateful hearts honor blessings given. Thankful for a holiday that can play up this function of our human nature. Grand in stature, a feast shared, prepared in love to fete the historic past as the leaves drift downward, parades move forward and we eat ourselves into a long nap. © Walter J Wojtanik