The whole matter of expressing gratitude comes perilously close to cliché-ridden parody this Thanksgiving Day. Of course we admit and try to audit our debt to the Almighty. We were advised by Shakespeare who observed, accurately "what fools these mortals be!" (NOT to observe and acknowledge our great debt to our very Creator!)
Stepping earthwards, we are advised to thank and forgive our debtors as well. On a more intimate matter, we look up to parents and offspring, then laterally to mate and siblings -- cheerfully to friends and the milkman. Then we may gorge on far too many calories with happy feelings, forgiving indiscretions of diet -- praising the donor of fowl and pies made from ubiquitous pumpkin.
Late November was celebratory in New England back in the Seventeenth Century when our Pilgrim fathers had hauled in their first harvest and drafted our first peace agreement with the Indians -- presumably while eating something simple like corn and some sort of fruit with their sincere prayers to their loving God. May He bless the prayers we send aloft.
Sonnet To A Healer
Utterly professions, she assumed command
To protect and heal; she took
The ball and ran
Every test in the doctor's book.
But first, she came to know her patient well
With methods honored down the centuries
So it bonded us two as we came to know
The search with all our venturing.
Her patient was also a physician, whose lifeblood
Had woefully hit the danger mark
Requiring transfusions and special care
But she gave me her best and understood
How illness sharply defines the dark
Give way to her gift of brightest day!