Thank You
Isn’t it interesting that this is the time of year when Thanksgiving occurs? Why is it now, when the colors of fall have faded and the the world is turning grey? Why not spring, when we’re breathing a sigh of relief that winter is finally over and the world is coming alive again? We say it’s because this is harvest time. But in most areas of the country, the corn was shucked more than a month ago, and the wheat has long been cut, dried, and ground into flour.
I wonder if Thanksgiving doesn’t come now because it is so tempting at this time of year to mourn what we are losing—long, sunny days; picnics in the park; leisurely bike rides; homegrown produce—instead of focusing on the bounteous plenty that will carry us through the colder, darker months.
In this poem, Ross Gay asks us to turn away from dread and fear to grateful celebration. How wonderful that we have a holiday reminding us to do just that.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Thank You
by Ross Gay
If you find yourself half naked
and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,
again, the earth's great, sonorous moan that says
you are the air of the now and gone, that says
all you love will turn to dust,
and will meet you there, do not
raise your fist. Do not raise
your small voice against it. And do not
take cover. Instead, curl your toes
into the grass, watch the cloud
ascending from your lips. Walk
through the garden's dormant splendor.
Say only, thank you.
Thank you.
From the collection, Against Which.
