Thanksgiving - 1621
There is grass on the graves now, bleached pale gold by the October sun.
There is grass on the graves now, bleached pale gold by the October sun.
Fifty remain of the hundred that sailed.
Seven houses now stand, built very near Despair.
Sickness...remember the days where only six of us could walk.
Chief Massasoit has brought a legion of braves...to feast and revel.
Hostile eyes always watching. We buried our dead in secret.
Anna is tying her apron again, sweet voice raised in Psalm XXIII.
Prow towards the unknown, waves like mountains...this the valley of the shadow of death.
Samoset and Squanto are surrounded, young ones beg for stories of bears and leopards.
Oh God, send aid! This our final hour, unless in Thy mercy you spare us!
Venison, wild turkey, oysters, carrots...even pies with berries.
Bitter cold Sabbath. No food. No sound but the whimpering of children.
Bradford is admiring a fine eel, caught by a young Indian, flushed even darker at the praise.
Saints and strangers, Old World and New.
We are held in the hands of Almighty God.
We are held in the hands of Almighty God.
Give thanks.
Give thanks.
Give thanks.
-jcs-
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