My spirit, a russet leaf of oak
swirls to November’s windy wand,
swept along in a homeward spell.
Brushing by the old ones
I am green again, though briefly so.
For we all change hues in autumn’s breeze.
And the heat of held hands
and thankful hearts
has cut away the cold.
Filling ourselves with the gravy of good,
we laugh again at dinnertime
and for dessert we cry.
True colors show
around the table
in the fall of the year.
“Now Thank We All, Our God,”
for times of turning.