Quiet November Sunday

Thanksgiving for Two

by Marjorie Saiser

The adults we call our children will not be arriving

with their children in tow for Thanksgiving.

We must make our feast ourselves,

slice our half-ham, indulge, fill our plates, 

potatoes and green beans,

carried to our table near the window.

We are the feast, plenty of years,

arguments.  I'm thinking the whole bundle of it

rolls out like a white tablecloth.  We wanted

to be good company for one another.

Little did we know that first picnic

how this would go.  Your hair was thick,

mine long and easy; we climbed a bluff

to look over our storybook plain.  We chose

our spot, as high as we could, to see

the river and the checkerboard fields.

What we didn't see was this day, in

our pajamas if we want to,

wrinkled hands strong, wine

in juice glasses, toasting 

whatever's next,

the decades of side-by-side,

our great good luck.