"In Thanksgiving" - Gregory de Rocher
For the only recent opening of windows too long closed.
For the present night air nursing in its solicitous bosom
the swelling cricket cries muting the wailing, far-off train,
and the relentless tinnitus of a tireless insomnia.
For that little girl who so long ago accepted that little boy's hand
as they crouched together, regaining their secret place in the bushes
where they touched each other's Innocence.
For that adolescent poem whose incipit read
"On this unlit alban candle,"
still coruscating like a thousand sparklers.
For that young woman in black tights and Repettos at the ciné-club,
whose plaid skirt was closed with a shiny pin,
and whose dark turtleneck reached her copper hair.
For that terrified young mother so attentive to her first-born's
soft steady snore, praying it would never cease.
For this night, and for these presences, breathing beside me,
visitations not lost, spirits still here, hovering, all of them.
And finally for you, yes, and perhaps most of all, you,
Witnesses of these reminiscings whose moment
you too have now lived, and made come into Being.
For the awakening
to what not yet exists,
yet insists upon being.