Thanksgiving, it seems, is at much an act of memory as of the present moment, a time of reflection. At least to hear Emily Dickinson tell it.
One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.
Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum —
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room —
Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
’Twere Thanksgiving Day.
—Emily Dickinson (public domain)
Photo by Micolo J, Creative Commons license via Flickr.
Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November, we’re exploring the theme Whittles and Wood.
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