Somewhere It’s Always Thanksgiving by Al Ortolani - Rattle: Poetry (original) (raw)

Last night when I crawled into bed and switched off the light,

too tired to read, too tired for an audio book on low volume even,

I said what I called my evening prayer, which is more of a recap

of the day and a short run down of all I should be thankful for.

I recalled how the day had blown by; more wind and chaff

than wheat spread on a sheet at my knees. I made a vow that

tomorrow I’d take a moment to put the rush of the day on hold,

pause for even a moment to scratch the dog’s ears, the two of us

in the backyard below the wet moon in the still dripping rain.

This would be the exact minute that I suck the air into my lungs.

We’re alive my boy, I say to him, and he nuzzles me with his

great nose and searches my face with his honey eyes.

We’ve only got a moment I say to him, and then tomorrow

it’s someone else in this same backyard with the same dogwood

we planted, drawing in its sap for the winter, protecting

the heartwood for another someone’s spring. But he already

understands all this. It’s why his eyes are so warm, so completely

given over to the one wish that matters. Ok, my boy, it’s ok.