Thanksgiving

On a Friday night after work, 

The first promise of snow is in the air. 

I'm out on the back porch 

Looking east at the sky. 

Up ahead, 

A long distance flight powers down. 

Its light makes tunnels through 

Orange-lit street clouds. 

Its suddenly insistent thrumming 

Joins the theater-voiced city-- 

All the humanity, motors, 

And small animals 

This side of Phinney Ridge. 

Under our black and crimson night, 

A few fresh-faced stars 

Nudge and wink 

Over a private joke 

I'm now privileged to understand. 

A week ago, though, 

Out on the front porch that time, 

I looked at the rain on the street 

And remembered a juvenile me-- 

Even into my fifties, for god's sake-- 

Inhabiting soggy afternoons just like this, 

All drug-addled, brain-fevered, and flopped sweat, 

Stalking what passed as normal, 

But getting nowhere near. 

Oh, thank you, merciful Lord. 

Thank you, my dear wife, 

And daughters, and 

Recently departed mom, 

For bringing me back here 

From where I used to think I belonged.