Saturday, November 24, 2018

empty places at the table

Thanksgiving ‘18

the sun peeks over the slopes to the southeast,
and spotlights the last burnished-gold oak leaves,
then shafts through the baring woods onto the dropping creek,

for a time, a light fog swirls up from the tumbling water
and reveals the shafts as only roiling mist can,
between the shafts 
a sharp black shadow cuts through to the water,
a tree sculpts away the light and makes it more real,
it is as if a finger points to the end of the beam’s journey,

each moment outside this morning feels of power,
inside my heart, though, 
I come back to the empty places at today’s meal
where loved ones, gone now, would have sat,
each loss a hole that will not be filled,
though my tears try.

by Henry H. Walker
November 22, ‘18

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