A Stroll at Thanksgiving

Ken Allan Dronsfield

Fields of mottled dead grass
rotting apples lie unclaimed
deer tracks cover the hillside
orchards are graveyard silent.

Hazy autumn of gray skies
winds blow through the trees
train whistle sounds by the river
hot coffee warms cold hands.

So much to be thankful for as
Chickadees and jays flutter about.
Squirrels racing on the stonewall
a lone falling snowflake cheers.

A day of Thanksgiving speaks,
soft whispers in an icy crisp voice
a lazy stroll along the forest paths
skipping rocks on the frozen pond.

Knitted hat and mittens welcome,
Grandmother made them years ago.
The winter solstice smiles once again
in November on a Thanksgiving Day.