Broomstick Season

Published on by geriatric pilgrim

~

The trees that can have given up their leaves—

the reds and golds you see in magazines,

(though dry and chewed and rotting with black mold)—

standing outlined against the sky: broom sticks

whose branches seem about to sweep the clouds.

~

Hard not to recall those who died this month:

a grandmother, father, mother-in-law,

Thanksgivings when their absence filled our plates.

The Ronald McDonald House Thanksgiving

of turkey, fear, anxiety, and tears,

as my wife and her sons saw my daughter

for what we all knew would be the last time.

~

Well into the November of my life,

I mourn the green and teeming dreams I had,

The gaudy colored leaves of happiness,

chewed by anger and blackened by misdeeds.

Now naked of ambition, strength, shame, guilt,

but rooted in the rocky soil of Grace,

supported by my friends and families,

I raise my bony, brittle arms to sweep

away remorse, and cry in gratitude:

Thank you, thank you, and thank you, for it all.

~ ~

12 thoughts on “Broomstick Season”

  2. Dear Rick,

    May your Thanksgiving be just right this week…I am grateful for you and all the wonderful poems and heartfelt sharings we have experienced these last years with you..until our next gathering I send love..Peace

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  4. Just adding my voice to those above, Rick. Your words are stripped of pretense and easy sentiment like the broomstick limbs you speak of. And yet, like autumn leaves, they show the true colors of grace. Wishing you a blessed Thanksgiving, my friend.

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