Thanksgiving

More than these greens tossed with toasted pecans,

I want to serve you the hymn I sung into the wooden bowl

as I blended the oil and white vinegar.  More than honey ice cream

beside the warm pie, I want to serve you the bliss in the apples' flesh,

how it gathered the sun and carried its luminousness to this table.

More than the popovers, the risen ecstasy of wheat, milk and eggs,

I want to serve you the warmth that urged the transformation to bread.

Blessings, I want to serve you full choruses of hallelujah, oh so wholly

here in this moment.  Oh so holy here in this world.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

That would really be something

I would like to make nothing
a verb.  I nothing.  You nothing. 

We nothing.  That second person
plural is my favourite conjugation. 

Imagine.  Both of us nothinging together. 
Where?  I don't care.  The garden.

The alley.  The canyon.  The floor. 
More nothing.  Oh, it's nothing. 

Nothing is sacred, anymore. 
And there, on the altar of air

our minds and bodies rest.  They unfold
in the hollow, the gaps.  Though

when nothing happens, that's
all I want to talk about.  I thrill

at nothing.  I love nothing.
Nothing's perfect.  Nothing's easy.

The grass continues to grow.
Nothing to do.  Nothing to say

Let's nothing together all day. 






Rosemerry  Wahtola Trommer