Thanksgiving, the kids come home and I rejoice because at last I can delegate again.
Delegation, one of the perks of parenthood.
Delegation, how the napkins get ironed, wood hauled, dishwasher emptied, onions sliced, chairs moved, table set, chaos ordered.
Delegation, essential to any host whose hands are covered in butter and turkey bacteria.
And a boon to a Poem Elf who doesn’t have time to for elfing.
So here’s the work of my elf-ette, Anne Marie, who was sent forth with a grocery list, camera and poem fragment.
The fragment is the last few lines from Adam Zagajewski’s “Try to Praise the Mutilated World.”
Here’s the whole poem if you’re interested:
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
And while thanks are being considered and passed along, I want to thank you for reading this blog.