I came to the beach for Thanksgiving.
My family, a small band of nomads,
brought popcorn and pop-tarts and
homemade gravy and we sat, as we always do,
and watched the youngest children rise and spin
and tremble through adolescence.
I came to the beach for Thanksgiving
because in the quiet hours I could
sneak down to the sandy shore and
scribble these half-written words,
pulling small pieces of bread out of my pockets
and hoping the small bird of a poem would come.
I cam to the beach for Thanksgiving
because it is immeasurable, and I,
artificially large, needed to remember
that I am thankful.