I’m sitting in my muse-free zone
picturing the faces of my family.
Surely there is poetry there –
in those eyes and those familiar smiles,
in the vision of generations,
in love lost, love regained, love found,
in the possibility of persimmon pudding
and home grown green beans.
There is poetry in the familiar –
in the ritual of rush and not enough time,
in the spectacle and laughter,
in the empty places for those we miss.
And there is definitely poetry
in the hands we grasp around our family circle,
in this annual waltz of thanksgiving.