Raymond A. Foss Poems

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We gather each year to remember the year gone by
the harvest season, the days of thanksgiving
the first Thanksgiving, in the cold of New England
a small band of devout Pilgrims and
rough-hewn adventurers, together sharing the bounty
of their first harvest, with the Indians they had come to know
Stopping, raising voices and prayers in humble thanks
to the creator, sustainer, provider God
Humble prayers, for they knew full well the cost
the price they had paid for the parting from the safety
the bold act of faith to go from Europe
to this new land, knowing that it was not Virginia,
knowing that they had lost so many saints,
so many souls that first year,
that their number was fewer, that their lives had been harder
harder than they planned; but the God who they followed
watched over them, protected the shoot of the stump
the hardy band, the noble colony
and gave them reason to give Thanksgiving

November 22, 2006 11:57

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