Thanksgiving

Sunshine shimmers against

November’s ice-blue sky

Reflecting the possibility of

Snowflakes

Not yet fallen this season.

Smoke roils in deafening silence

From the chimney;

Warm wisps of hickory,

Ash and sassafras

He cut this summer.

He climbs the ladder and must

Catch . . .

His . . . breath.

Like most important things,

This ritual must be done

Before snowfall,

For after snow,

Only resting, staying warm,

And praying

Are important.

This happy task

Brings warmth,

Though only at a price of great effort.

I watch his struggle,

Using shoulders and clavicles to

Heave in more breath.

He is pink and puffing,

Like jolly old Saint Nicholas

Working a labor of love.

I know Greek terms for his

Phlegmatic disease,

But cannot name the cold chill

In my middle or the hot burning

In my eyes.

Some day the puffing and heaving

Will cease and pink

Give way to gray.

That year the colored lights

Won’t be raised to encircle the eaves

For the next holiday.

But more than turkey,

Stuffing or cranberries,

The vision of him on the roof

Will always remind me

To be thankful.

Sharon K. Hull, M.D.

 Student Affairs

Third Place, Poetry