Thanksgiving Poem

Nostalgic Sleigh Ride

A nostalgic poem about a sleigh ride from the author of Twelve Twisted Tales.

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Sleigh Dream

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Published: November 22, 2019

Bundled in a horse-drawn sleigh, 
warm and cozy on Thanksgiving Day.
Happily blushing, we went on our way,
the children restless, yearning to play.

Past weathered barns fraught with snow
and over covered bridges would we go.
Down a lonely lane, toward the snowy mountain,
around the pond where skaters bond
and wishes wait in the old stone fountain,
past the farmsteads and withered fields,
the ghosts of bounty that harvest yields.

Now with our steed strong and staid,
we made our way through the glade.
Past the rustic cider mill,
along the coast and up a hill,
then onto Main Street, straight on down
through the quaint, romantic town.
Toward the chiming, white church steeple,
past the storefronts curbed with people,
in the wake of the Pilgrim's boat
at the stern of Santa's float,
behind fairytales and candy lands
as the sidewalks sang with clapping hands
to the music of the marching bands.

From the celebration would we emerge
from the flowery, spangled surge
to behold a wondrous sight
a side street sleepy, virgin white.

Hazy lamplights lit our course 
and into a trot sprang our horse.
His hooves and harness jingling bells
as if to the tunes of sweet noels,
while in the shops from whose windows shone
a snug inviting yellow tone.
There flashed the goods that Santa would leave
under the tree late Christmas Eve.
The clothes and toys wrapped in bows
and all the gifts that a stocking stows.

Now past chimney smoke and picket fences,
nostalgic aspects that stir the senses
here old Victorian silhouettes abound.
Through a dash of snow we smoothly wound,
the atmosphere around us festive,
thus within full and restive
or nestled by the fireplace
or with their heads bowed in grace.
Folks enjoyed a simple pace
while others gleefully strolled about
amid the maize and wreathes without
amid a twinkling universe
of colors snow-clad and diverse.

To our delight, there soon arose
a savory ambrosia for the nose
from tables fragrant fare adrift,
which gave our souls another lift.

And so it was with a sigh
through the scent of pumpkin pie
that we would fly into a sky
powdered with pink through leafless limbs
to a house bright with gold and flowing with hymns.

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