Ten years ago I wrote what is still a rare poem for me. I've since published a short volume of poems that is available only on Kindle Unlimited, and it's been years since I've added anything to it. Writing poems is not my strong suite, but every once in a while, something comes to mind.
This year I'm revisiting that early Thanksgiving poem. My days are very different now. I'm on my own. But looking back, I was on my own even when my parents and grandparents lived. The fracturing of family began long ago but now the cousins and I are rebuilding our version of family. It doesn't look the same as when the two older generations were alive, but that's okay. Today, my family is more accepting, having learned those same lessons I was taught. We're kinder now.
I wrote this poem after a solitary walk in the woods. I walked to steel myself for the day ahead, for the demands that would be made of me. It truly was "conform or be cast out" in those days. It did suck the air away from me.
Today, the last verse has taken on a new meaning. The road does lead home to all that is mine, and with the passing of time, the path is truly mine. Having lived with unattainable demands, I now sit back and listen to the two younger generations and simply enjoy them for who they are. Our roots are entwined, but I put no pressure on them to bend in my direction.
They are young trees. Let them grow where they will. Let they're memories of Thanksgiving be full of air.
_*_*_
Long ago I tread a path
A misty woodland way
I had no company along the trek
So the trees could have their say
They spoke to me in silence
With movement seen not heard
And I replied in quiet kind
Walking without a word
The day ahead held demands
Devoid of mist and air
I could not whine or complain
Or do what trees don't dare
Beneath the ground unseen by all
Their roots do intertwine
Reminding me the path ahead
Leads home to all that's mine
_*_*_*_*_*_*_
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