Thanksgiving in June

I have a narrative poem I’d like to share, and if I were a more patient man I would wait until the middle of November to share it. As it happens, I am not a patient man, so I’m just going to go ahead and share it! This short tale is told from the perspective of Thomas Turkey, and it sees him on a mid-November day walking through lovely Almost Forest. I hope this makes whoever reads it smile, and that that same reader has a great rest of their day 🙂

A Poem for Thanksgiving (In June)

Thomas Turkey woke up to a light frost on the ground:
The trees in Almond Forest were of yellow, red, and brown.
The grass was green enough and colored in by fallen leaves.
The air was somewhat cold but still had far more up its sleeve.

“Autumn!” Thomas said, and craned his neck up towards the sky:
Another day of baby-blue with ample sun supplied.
The clouds were fluffed (like all good clouds), and bore such pleasant shapes
As cornucopias stuffed full of apples, pears, and grapes.

Thomas smiled easily, stuck out his neck (which puffed),
Then froze when thinking back upon that wickedest word “stuffed.”
“What day is this?” asked Thomas to himself, with dread reliving
The past years and those days which led up to the foul “Thanksgiving.”

He heard a crunch not far away, and whipped his turkey head
Around so frantically you would have thought he’d been shot dead:
A little bunny rabbit was seen hopping through the trees.
Thankful, Thomas could have fallen to his turkey knees.

“Every year,” he muttered, “it’s the same thing every year:
Run and hide, or hide then flee; but always feeling fear.”
Thomas Turkey, longtime resident of Almond Forest,
Was praying this was not the year his body became porous. 

It didn’t help that Thomas had a prominent red snood—
The fleshy thing which every gentle-turkey neck includes—
Which trumpeted to nearby hunters that their prey was close:
A process which left most sane turkeys scared or just morose.

Friends and loved ones: each, fowl sons and daughters to some other.
He’d seen so many fall; their hopes and dreams by gravy smothered. 
The worst part of the whole affair was that Tom’s greatest joy
Sat on those tables with his kin, whose lives had been destroyed:

The sauce which jiggled from a can and bore a crimson redness.
It tasted of cranberries and could vary in its freshness.
Poor Thomas loved cranberry sauce so much, despite the link:
It simultaneously made his heart both rise and sink.

“Focus, Thomas,” Thomas said, “these woods are filled with danger.”
His turkey senses needed to be watching out for strangers.
Starting out towards a spot he knew was thick with brush,
He spotted flying overhead a wary, wayward thrush.

“Just a thrush,” he thought, and kept on going in his fashion:
Measured steps by stick-like legs were each planned-out and rationed.
Thomas passed a line of birch trees—white-and-black--that starkly
Set a backdrop which contrasted with the yellows sharply.

As he went, the sights were those to which he'd grown acquainted:
Berry-bushes dotted in with fruit-spots as though painted.
Tiny brooks that flowed from somewhere; age-old rocks absorbed by moss:
And China plates overtly placed; filled with cranberry sauce.

Thomas Turkey froze in place as if he’d become ice:
Upon the forest floor, a plate stacked-high with his great vice.
“But why?” he asked, to no one—or at least so it appeared:
His heart said run right to it, while his face brought forth a sneer.

“Oh, no,” he thought. “The trick is new, but surely still a trick.”
They must have thought the seasoned fowl foolish as a brick.
Thomas nearly hurried off and past, a certain trap,
But something on his shoulder gently landed with a ‘flap.’

“Thomas,” sang a voice, “don’t leave. It’s been so very long
Since we’ve enjoyed our favorite dish; departing would be wrong!”
A bite-sized saintly turkey with an ethereal glow
Who looked like Thomas Turkey from his side said not to go.

“Well,” thought he, “perhaps a closer look would be in order.”
His wild turkey foot crept just an inch plus one more quarter:
“C’mon, Tom, that’s crazy. There’s a scope fixed on that plate.
Get outta' dodge, man; how on earth is this up for debate?”

On his other shoulder (and the source of the dissent),
A second tiny turkey from some far-off place was sent:
The sleeveless leather jacket draped around his turkey shoulders
Looked tough enough, but little good it did for weather colder.

The hardened turkey kept on going. “All I’m sayin’ is
It’s not like we’re in turkey school, again: this ain’t a quiz.
A dinged up can of sauce, alright, in that case I’m on board.
A fancy plateful, though—that’s just a risk we can’t afford.”

Thomas was the picture of a bird in consternation:
His gray-brown feathers ruffled as though in the wrong formation.
Many seasons had the two advised him through his journeys:
They were his friends and confidants; they were his guiding turkeys.

“Listen guys,” he said, “can I be honest just a second?
We’ve never been in one accord, us three, as I can reckon.
Does either one of you think what the other has to say
Is valid to a point your mind might actually be swayed?”

The first one’s eyes were locked upon the cranberry sauce, still,
So, Thomas turned to see if turkey two held fast his will:
“Ah, jeez,” the second said, “we’ve lived a happy life, right guys?”
The heaping plate of tart red gold now also held his eyes.

“Excellent,” said Thomas, and he wasted little time
In rushing over to the plate which bore the dish sublime:
He turned his head about as if attached to Autumn’s swivel
And thought, “If there are hunters near, at least they’re somewhat civil.”

Thomas could have gobbled up the whole plate in a jiff.
He sniffed the air for humankind and couldn't find a whiff.
He pecked around the area as one sweeping for mines,
But only heard the wind and only saw birches and pines.

“It’s time to eat,” his left-side turkey sang. “Oh, how delightful!”
“It seems safe, Tom,” the second said, “we haven’t heard no rifle.”
Thomas Turkey, letting go his worries of a trap,
Had brought his beak down to the treat when came a nearby ‘SNAP.’

He turned too late, expecting that this breath would be his last,
And saw his father: Daniel Turkey. Thomas was aghast.
“Hey there, Son,” his father said, the dry leaves crunching underfoot,
“It’s been a while, that’s for sure.” Tom wore a blank, dumb look.

This was Daniel Turkey as his son had never seen him:
A fowl of perfect stature, somehow plump and also trim.
The snood around his neck shown like a royal turkey’s might,
And the feathers of his tail gleamed in the sun, reflecting light.

“Dad,” said Thomas, “I don’t understand—what’s going on?
You fell so many Falls ago—you’re dead, I mean…c’mon!”
Daniel wore a look exuding pure turkey compassion,
And said, “You’ve done well, Son; mistakes are always bound to happen.”

Thomas’s blank look was back; his father’s words made little sense. 
The turkeys two stared on until the dawning truth commenced:
Thomas took a deep, deep breath. “How long ago? And where?”
“Remember when you saw that thrush?” his dad said. “It was there.”

“So, this is Turkey Heaven?” Thomas asked, “It looks the same.”
His Father gobbled heartily and said, “No, Son, I came
To bring you back up with me, and I thought that we could split
A fine plate of cranberry sauce; then we’ll get on with it.”

You didn’t have to say it twice; no, not to Thomas Turkey:
He shared Thanksgiving with his father, without any hurry.
Their table had two birds and looked Autumnal all across:
There even were some leftovers (but just cranberry sauce).

“Ready, Son?” asked Daniel Turkey, after they had finished.
Almond Forest still was lovely, not a bit diminished:
“I’m ready,” Thomas said, and then a flash of brilliant light
Swallowed them up and away, out of turkey sight.