Here comes the sun, the sun'll come up tomorrow, and any other sun-songs you can think of

Now I know what people mean when they say...*&%# Blogger! I had a great post, and blamm-o, it disappeared! All my clever, witty words, gone forever! Who gets those words anyway? They're like lost socks, I'll bet, and tiny, tiny Lego pieces. They're all together somewhere cavorting. The Legos are wearing socks and standing at podiums made of stacks of really great books, reading poems.

What I said was....The rain is getting to me! In my neighborhood, only the squirrels are happy. The rain hasn't stopped them, or the chickadees for that matter, from gathering, running, climbing, squeaking, chattering, and otherwise living it up!

Somehow, in my last post that disappeared, my last post that the Legos are passing off as their own in some undisclosed coffeehouse full of lost socks and great writing, I segued beautifully into the fact that Thanksgiving is NEXT WEEK! I very bravely disclosed the fact that I have never, never made a Thanksgiving turkey, and that my mother smiled and laughed when I suggested that maybe I should be in charge of the Thanksgiving turkey this year.

I mean, I am 36. I am a mother of two. I run my own art studio. I can do this. Nevermind that, historically, all I've contributed to our Thanksgiving table was a series of different boyfriends and sweet potato casserole. Nevermind that not one of the boyfriends became my husband. Nevermind that my husband won't eat the sweet potato casserole. My cousin used to eat it! But she moved far, far away. (It WASN'T the casserole!).

No matter. I may or may not be cooking the bird. Maybe my mother just wants to eat Thanksgiving dinner on Thanksgiving, not the Monday after, when I remember to buy the bird.

Ah well. Here's a poem. With a Thanksgiving turkey in it. Cooked up by me! Thanks for reading!

Love Song for November Rain

Strange but True Turkey Fact #11: It is not true that a turkey will drown if it looks up when it’s raining.

What the rain needs now is love, sweet love.
It’s the only thing that the skies get too little of.

Even the hardy mums, tough mothers, have had enough.
Their heads are molding, their roots are disintegrating.

Soon their soil, their very foundation, will be nothing
but a muddy puddle. When distant cousin, winter, moves in,

an icy bottom can’t be too far off. Cold as a well-digger’s rump,
my father used to say. That’s the company this rain is keeping.

Rain, my friend, you are angering the cats.
Yesterday, you washed the ticks right off their backs.

Today, good fellow, gray painter, you are weak as tea
strained too soon. You are drizzling, making the mice slippery,

the grass wet underfoot. You’re drowning feline desires.
I have heard an ant could expire in one of your drops.

I have heard you are good for crops, for gardens, for men in long pants.
I have heard you roll, hands up, eyes closed, mouth wide,

in a perfect watery O, right off the backsides of rubber duckies.
But, hey, whose bathtub are you filling? You’ve drowned the turkeys.

How can we pilgrims expect pumpkin pie when the poor oversized
squash are sitting in soggy orange piles of their own seeds?

I tell you, wet-and-dreary, one of these days, someone is going to turn
your nose up so you pour down your own snout.