One day is there of the series

by Emily Dickinson

One day is there of the series
Termed “Thanksgiving Day”
Celebrated part at table
Part in memory –
Neither Ancestor nor Urchin
I review the Play –
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday
Had There been no sharp subtraction
From the early Sum –
Not an acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room
Not a mention whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto such, were such Assembly,
‘Twere “Thanksgiving day” –

In the times of turmoil, I always turn to Emily for comfort and wisdom. No matter what part of the world you live, these are the times of upheaval. It’s that annual day of giving thanks in the United States.  I, for one, am thankful for poetry in my life, so I am sharing this poem here today.

The poet says it’s  a “series/Termed “Thanksgiving Day.””
Perhaps, she means to say that we should be grateful for our blessings, whatever they may be, every day, in a series of days, and not just for one day of the year.

The holiday is  “Celebrated part at table” and “Part in memory -” because perhaps, not every loved one is sitting at the table to celebrate.

She refers to the day as a “Reflex Holiday,” a celebration carried out without much introspection. She feels that the holiday would not have held a deeper significance had there been no loss. “Had There been no sharp subtraction/From the early Sum -” Because life is full of losses, the celebration of the bounty is more meaningful.
This theme of some loss making the joys of life sweeter appears on several of her poems. The Elsewhere she says, “To comprehend a nectar/Requires sorest need.”

We certainly have the sorest need for the nectar right about now.

May you have a joyous day today and every day of the year give you satisfaction.
Happy Thanksgiving.

Dear Readers,

For some reason, these words seem apt for this winter, and I couldn’t resist sharing it with you.  It can hold any meaning that suits the season in your heart.

“Glee! The Great Storm Is Over!”

By Emily Dickinson

Glee! The great storm is over!
Four have recovered the land;
Forty gone down together
Into the boiling sand.

Ring, for the scant salvation!
Toll, for the bonnie souls, —
Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,
Spinning upon the shoals!

How they will tell the shipwreck
When winter shakes the door,
Till the children ask, “But the forty?
Did they come back no more?”

Then a silence suffuses the story,
And a softness the teller’s eye;
And the children no further question,
And only the waves reply.