Golden cockleshells grace the trees,
Encrusted with the sweet smell of day,
Crackling sounds amongst the bees,
With warnings you'll soon be away,
Cranberries and gravy guiding you home,
To give thanks with your family near,
Here i'll wait for your words alone,
Praying for that day you'll appear,
Biding my time till the festivities end,
Grave anticipation of your return,
Out of sorts and somewhat mad,
For your words i've began to yearn,
This thanksgiving the feast is absent,
As I lurk to feed on the words you grace,
Perhaps some distance may do us some good,
For i'm hungover on your taste,
But I can't deny this addiction,
Transported by the sound of your voice,
My soul captivated without restriction,
A sense of joy looms without choice,
So here is where I bid you farewell,
Think of me and return home soon,
I'll dream of the words that you did tell,
Of how we'll meet under the light of the moon,
We are told to give thanks for the harvest,
But I think this year i'll give thanks to you,
The light within me you've been able to harness,
With the slightest thing that you do.
A poem I wrote for somebody special last thanksgiving.
