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by Frances Frost
My father’s face is brown with sun,
His body is tall and limber.
His hands are gentle with beast or child
And strong as hardwood timber.
My father’s eyes are the colors of the sky,
Clear blue or gray as rain:
They change with the swinging change of days
While he watches the weather vane.
That galleon, golden upon our barn,
Veers with the world’s four winds.
To fill our barley bins,
To stack our wood and pile our mows
With redtop and sweet tossed clover.
He captains our farm that rides the winds,
A keen-eyed brown earth-lover.
“Turkey’s Thanksgiving Wish”
by Eva Adolfo
If a turkey will make a wish
It would be a long, long list.
It will give you all sorts of reasons
To change that turkey tradition.
It will wish you change your mind
Of having a turkey when you dine.
It will wish you’ll crave for seafood
Or tell you crabs would be good!
It will wish you have a toothache
So mashed potato is what you’ll pick.
Or wish that on Thanksgiving Dinner
Only vegetarians will come together.
Yet, people come and they insist
“A turkey dish is just the best!”
Poor turkey, it will just yell,
“Oh dear, please take away the
November in a year!”
by Maris Stella
The austerity of winter dwindles now;
green leafbuds bulge, and yellow catkins bloom.
There can be no one unaware of how
the earth puts by the liturgy of gloom
for the heart-waking utterance of spring...
the flying cloud possessed by wind and sun;
antiphonals the loosened rivers sing
on greening shores; birds with new nests begun
under sun-brightened eaves or leaf-lipped hedges;
and resurrection of forgotten things:
seedlings and dry cocoons on lonely ledges
turning from dust and dark to leaves and wings.
The paschal candle of the spring is lit
And all the earth is glorified with it.