A Sunday Poem – Thanksgiving

Wendell Berry continues to sustain me.

It is late November, Thanksgiving,
and the slow rain falls as all day
it has fallen. The mists drift
in the treetops along Camp Branch.
The ewe flock grazes the green slope
as in a dream of a painting
by Samuel Palmer. There is no wind.
It is completely quiet. From the distance
comes only the sound of the branch
flowing in its wooded hollow, old,
old, and new, unidentifying the day
and the man giving his thanks.
This Day: Collected and New Sabbath Poems by Wendell Berry

Today I am giving my thanks to everyone who voted, to people who worked at the polls to make sure every vote counted, to the town clerks who diligently organized through an unprecedented pandemic, to the everyday postal workers who worked hard to sort and deliver ballots despite cuts and barriers in their work, to Joe and Kamala and their families who ran a positive and uplifting campaign. Most of all – I thank the people of color and Indigenous nations of this country. Centuries, centuries, of resistance. Of perseverance. Of pain, heartache, violence, terror. And yet – they continue to show up and make their voices heard. We learn so much from listening to those voices, studying the past, and creating new paths for the future.

I saved this picture to my phone 4 years ago. I don’t know why because I’ve never been a huge Biden fan, but this popped up in my Timehop this week while we were waiting for the votes to be counted. I took it as a good sign. Let’s all get our sunglasses ready – we’re preparing to chart a new course and it’s straight towards a new day.