Where is poetry? In the Thanksgiving feast?
What is this that consumes, yet grows?
That takes away, yet more and more knows
All those wants, that want what they want the least,
Loving only the going, not what goes?
It has been decided that we will go outside,
Walk the grounds near the river and play with sticks,
Assemble outside, where hills and woods and bricks
Were long ago assembled, and old trails veer wide
Of tall grasses which hide the dangerous ticks.
We did some hiking and camping, true,
In places of historic value drawn on maps
Where the derby oversaw working class caps
And hanging out in the library I decided I really loved you,
Or knew it, by myself, in the Y, swimming laps.
But these are memories, and if I daydream,
And respond to you slowly, as our family members
Gather here to eat and then go to their separate slumbers,
I am, as you know, exactly as I seem,
In love with a muse, a mind—which is but a memory of hers.