a Thanksgiving poem

A small country town
where my cousins lived
in an old White House
under a mountain
with pink lady's slippers
and jack-in-the-box
and other wild treasures
blue-spotted salamanders
frogs and ribbon snakes
a stream with trout
such a joy to visit
when I was young

The pond in the woods
all summer would host
tribes of painted turtles
and then freeze solid
in winter ice thick
enough for a bonfire
we'd circle around
gliding on ice skates
under stars that burned
in the clear night sky

I remember sleeping there
up in the attic
rubbing two fist-sized stones
of white granite
and watching the flash
of orange not quite
a spark and the smell
like the caps in my cap gun

And a book I pulled
from a pile with the title
that drew me - Adventures
in the Skin Trade
I was thinking of sex
(a hopeful teen-ager)
but no
it was stories
of Wales and witches
by Dylan Thomas
a poet I'd yet to discover and
for whom my grandson is named

Betty and Hal
left us ages ago
the old house was sold off
even before
like me my cousins
are grandparents now
but tonight I'm remembering
Thanksgiving dinners
when all of us sat
at the dining room table
in Hamden and sang the old hymns
and delighted in dark meat
potatoes with gravy
pecan pie and the talk
and laughter that ran
round the table
with these thoughts
a sweet mix of gratitude
and sadness settles
like a dove
in the nest of my heart