<\/p>\n
I remember well<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n How the farmer, \u2018cross the road <\/p>\n <\/p>\n I remember How my young friends and I <\/p>\n I remember well I remember well those bright dead days of autumn, how my brother, the great white hunter crushed the wee head of the partridge he had winged. Crushed it slow and rythmically with the heel of his heavy boot. How the farmer, \u2018cross the road filled the burlap sack with sure and steady hand. … Continue reading Thanksgiving Day<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[9,8],"class_list":["post-250","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","tag-holidays","tag-thanksgiving"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/250","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=250"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/250\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":420,"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/250\/revisions\/420"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=250"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=250"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ddeubel.me\/poetry\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=250"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nthose bright dead days of autumn,
\nhow my brother, the great white hunter
\ncrushed the wee head of the partridge
\nhe had winged.
\nCrushed it slow and rythmically
\nwith the heel of his heavy boot.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nfilled the burlap sack
\nwith sure and steady hand.
\nFilled it with a litter of pups
\nand flung it into the
\ncold clear water of the crick.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhow my grandpa, at the dinner table
\nsucked and gummed his turkey
\nwith intense joy and abandon.
\nThe juices edging out the sides
\nof his eager, hungering mouth.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsquatted over the chilled stiff fly
\nand with the delicate hands
\nof surgeons or lovers to be,
\nslowly one by one
\npulled each leg out from under
\nits soft blue body.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthose cool receding days of autumn.
\nI remember so I give my thanks.
\nMy thanks not a sacrifice to a glaring Moloch
\nbut only,
\nthanks that I am a man
\nand not anything else.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"