My Pilgrim Thanksgiving

Far away again this year,

It doesn't feel like Thanksgiving.

I wonder when we'll meet again

In Grandma's long buffet line,

Corelle plates stacked thirty high

When we start stabbing turkey,

Scooping up sweet corn and green beans

With the heavy silver spoon--

The one marked with our initial.

I hope you'll remember me

In your distant merry-making,

Cheeks sore with unharnessed laughter,

Stomachs hanging over belts.

And when the feast is all finished

And you count off your blessings--

A trio of brown rice grains each--

I'll say grace over Corelle

Of sticky white rice and kimchi.

And I will give thanks as the Pilgims did--

For weathered homes of faith and hope,

More cherished with each season;

For friends and fam'ly far away,

The love that's still between us;

For unfamiliar fish and plants,

That faithfully sustain me;

For native friends who demonstrate

New ways to tend life's garden;

For precious ones who speak my tongue,

Better, language of the heart;

For purple blossoms dotting hills,

Silent streams stirred from slumber;

For God's presence and provision,

The Lord, worthy of all praise.

When you sit around the table,

Dishes cleared, picking out tea,

I'll pour a mug of yuja-cha,

Steam rising with thanksgiving.

And I will still miss you more than ever.