Feast

I heard the eagle's piercing cry this morning as I lay in bed,
contemplating plating & pickles (my homemade 911 dills
debut today). I listened to the insistent rain,
and the steady stream from overflowing gutters.
And a cat nicknamed "Marble" purring up her own
gentle storm directly into my face, which translates to
FEED ME FEED ME FEED ME NOW.

This is my favorite feast of the year, the only requirement
that we acknowledge the abundance of the moment.
Food is such an ephemeral pleasure; but, then again,
which pleasure is not ephemeral? It all passes.
I'm reminded of a dinner of, oh, perhaps ten years ago,
to celebrate the simultaneous birthdays
of my mother-in-law and another friend.
High in the Belltown condo of Seattle arts VIP
Peter Donnelly, with breath-taking views
of the December lights of Elliott Bay, we tippled, indulged
and made a heck of a lot of merry. I recall a humble
yet sumptuous chicken pot pie, which, as the years
have passed, has in my memory taken on the proportions
of Dickens' prized turkey --
"What, the one as big as me?" returned the boy.

Only eight of us remain from that grand evening.
But suspended in the joy of that moment, I had the sense
of the eternal and the ephemeral existing simultaneously,
the yin and yang of each second we experience.

This is what I wish to serve up
at the Thanksgiving table today.
Whatever your celebration, your feast, your observance --
acknowledge the ephemeral, honor the present,
and have yourself some damn good pie.
Because, as you well know, it's over all too soon.