It seems that something has come by and eaten my Thanksgiving poem right off the Drills and Amusements board. So I will try re posting it and see if it can be allowed to stick around for the Thanksgiving week.
Changing
Whippoorwill calls from the loose leaved oaks,
a sound like a distant, wailing train.
Chatter is scattered among the folks
of the deepening fall and pre-winter rain.
Brush strokes of autumn lie on the ground;
willows have wept all their golden tears;
days have grown shorter without a sound.
The seasons are wheels in the passing years.
Apple-crisp air smacks me like a kiss,
tingling as pumpkin-pie thoughts unwind.
Pain is the flip-side of change's bliss -
it depends on perspective and state of mind.
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