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