Thanksgiving.
A day for loss. 
Acute awareness of what isn't
To be grateful for what there is
With the ever delicate balance sheet
Any moment liable to switch

I'm not toasting to tomorrow
Not singing songs of the past
Only this moment I'm standing on
A dinner-plate sized platform
Already slipping fast

Some years the whole gangs here
Trading wine for melancholy in my cup
When other years this date in October 
Slips out through the backdoor
Excusing herself with nary a word

But determined Time 
keeps the march forward 
Leaving nothing in this world 
as something to hold on to 

Freedom.