Thanksgiving Without The Kids

Thanksgiving Without The Kids

They stroll with hands entwined,
wide-brimmed, white-cotton hats
tilted to block out slanting sun.
A striped green-and-white awning
creates cool shadows.
On a CD, guitars strum,
drowning the hum of ceiling fans.
Ropes of scarlet garlic hang
next to thickly strung red peppers
from hooks in the ceiling.

They carefully choose a few
honey-flavored Fuji apples
while standing next to
a pony-tailed mother
in a tennis dress,
herding children.
Her youngest, she guesses,
is about the age of
their granddaughter.

Over her Ben-Franklin glasses,
her eyes dart here and there
like a hummingbird
through the fragrant, cool, shadowy air,
pause at bins of dried fruits -
plump, sun-flushed apricots,
cranberries glowing like holly berries.
She feels vibes
from the stained-glass
palette of colors
as when looking at certain Picassos.

He slows to a stop
among greens: lettuces, broccoli, endive,
pungent basil. There are mushrooms,
tiny as matches,
big as tortillas.
He breathes in the forest coolness
with relish as if at the
top of the Falls at Yosemite.

They carefully choose
makings for their Thanksgiving feast,
a zucchini fritatta,
raspberries,
head home,
as pink clouds
fade to gray.


3RD PLACE WINNER: (changed thrum and from hooks)

They stroll with hands entwined,
wide-brimmed, white-cotton hats
tilted to block out slanting sun.
A striped green-and-white awning
creates cool shadows.
On a CD, guitars strum,
drowning the hum of ceiling fans.
Ropes of scarlet garlic hang
from hooks in the ceiling
next to thickly strung red peppers.

They carefully choose a few
honey-flavored Fuji apples
while standing next to
a pony-tailed mother
in a tennis dress,
herding children.
Her youngest, she guesses,
is about the age of
their granddaughter.

Over her Ben-Franklin glasses,
her eyes dart here and there
like a hummingbird
through the fragrant, cool, shadowy air,
pause at bins of dried fruits -
plump, sun-flushed apricots,
cranberries glowing like holly berries.
She feels vibes
from the stained-glass
palette of colors
as when looking at certain Picassos.

He slows to a stop
among greens: lettuces, broccoli, endive,
pungent basil. There are mushrooms,
tiny as matches,
big as tortillas.
He breathes in the forest coolness
with relish as if at the
top of the Falls at Yosemite.

They carefully choose
makings for their Thanksgiving feast,
a zucchini fritatta,
raspberries,
head home,
as pink clouds
fade to gray.