Food Gratitude,
A Thanksgiving poem.
It might as well be magic compared to way back when each meal could recognize the hand that was there where it began.
Now,
The seeds sown to be,
Grown to feed an increasing need,
Are keeping so many full.
Let us never cease to see the labors of nature's every fruit and vegetable,
And how they all seem to be miraculously and unbelievably plentiful.
I lived on a farm once for about six or seven months,
An American redhead on an African homestead.
I was a Peace Corps volunteer,
Sharing knowledge with the children in the village who grew millet and turned it into porridge that they'd feast on for all the year.
I found new appreciation hitchhiking two and a half hours or more,
One way wind,
Going to the nearest grocery store.
Still,
Our ancestors couldn't make believe such amazing things.
Ninety percent of civilization's entire existence used to be purely subsistence.
But I find that we forget,
More often than we'd like to admit,
Just how food fortunate we are.
From a can,
From a jar,
From a field,
From a farm,
From afar or nearby,
We are blessed with supply in great abundance.
Our daily sustenance arrives without delay.
Sometimes I say grace,
Most times I swallow in haste,
Chewing too few times and forgetting to taste,
But not today.
No,
Today I'll wait for a moment of reflection,
Pausing to feel amazed at these plates' generous selections.
And before I grab that food,
Might I recite some words of humble gratitude to nature,
Its creator,
And the hard-handed cultivators,
To the servers and the chefs and anyone else who's left,
From my heart and my stomach,
I offer a most sincere Thanksgiving.
Amen.
