Country Thanksgiving
by Michael Escoubas

How sweet the memories return to me
of late November
in Illinois. The way the sun emerged

from a sky of dappled blues and grays
and the honey-glow
of sunbeams fanning across harvested fields.

Ring-necked pheasants graced the roadside
in rainbows of color,
along the well-traveled gravel roads leading

to my Grandparent’s farm. I loved
the stone path
we walked on, to the farmhouse door.

Grandma and Grandpa were always
waiting there—
he, in blue bib-overalls; Grandma in her

long dress and apron. Kitchen aromas
told the tale
of turkey and oyster dressing, cornbread

and cranberry sauce, of pies and cakes
and a whistling teapot.
Such were the magic memories of my youth—

the welcoming hugs, sweet kisses we kids
brushed away and off to play.
Honey-glow of sun, still fresh in my heart.


 

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