My thanksgiving tradition continues: in which I turn all the words in my gratitude journal from the past year into a poem. This year's poem... Gratitude: Hot Sauce Poetry I remember my father filled with despair, an atheist he said we would cease to exist. He looked into the stars and now he has gone there, twinkling in my imagination, or just gone if we believe his. I will always remember him in the shoots of Oregon Spring tomatoes, the tender raw scent of tomato leaves, the experimental soil. He taught me to plant so many varieties of vegetables. Inhale the spices — turmeric, cinnamon, cardamom — on a clear sunny day, New Year's Day, surrounded by views of majestic mountains. Here you begin your rich intellectual life strolling along the idyllic Snohomish and Sammamish River trails. Here are the images of your recurring dreamscapes, granting familiarity in unconsciousness at night. Sam runs and walks with me around the town: the sights we enjoy together are a...
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