THANKSGIVING POEM
Another report from overseas
in the day’s news about
a jailed reporter
of some government’s opposition.
Someone on a street corner
hauled off by the police.
The weather there in that country
on that day was beautiful.
So it looked
in the picture. Here
where I am it is dusk, raw
and drizzly from the day’s rain.
The group of us
in the town square
hold up our placards and wave
to the rush-hour traffic.
Whether our candidate
wins or not is only slightly
more important than the fact
that here we are
and that when we are done
we will each go home,
change out of our damp clothes,
and have a little warm supper.
© Carole-Jean Smith
Does this brief poem depress you, or does it give you hope? I don’t know exactly, other than I just like this poem and its down-to-earth solidity. It seems so obvious and true that we each and all do whatever we can do, where we are, for causes and candidates—and it is enough. The one consistent inner activity is prayer—daily conversations with God all day long—heaved forth like energetic blasts of hope.
