Thanksgiving Canticle

Oran's Well



Be still. Be still and know that I am God.
His evisceration at least, into this
pooling mud of dank quiescence,
shimmering like jelly in the cold night wind.
Still as Passchendaele a hundred years becalmed,
almost all the shell holes filled and grown over,
smooth and green all summer now dead and brown,
the shadow of every tolling churchyard bell.
Still as the thrown note’s slow ebb,
receding back to starlight on bald snow
but failing the whale ribs’ churched abyss.
Still as the dead, yes, but short of Their
tommorowless triumph. Here again as
the roads of merriment and duty merge
into the next canticle of grace enough.
My ghost self sleeping off a futile drunk
while his only son prepares Thanksgiving
in an aging, shoddy poise of stillness.
Still as the empty pews of the abandoned church
smashed and dumpstered to the landfill
but troubled by the first…

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