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Thanksgiving At Nags Head

My breath draws a foggy circle
on the cold pane,
then erases it and draws another.
I gaze out at the grey November surf,
thinking of warmer days.
Seagulls, sharp cries muffled by the wind,
struggle past
as sand, snow-white, blows across the road.
Movement on the glass catches my eye __
my family reflected like a blurred picture
in the cloudy panes.
Glowing light warm on my back,
I stand, detached, studying the scene.
I could be looking into the past
or the future,
for though we change,
something remains the same.

My mother, mitted hands cradling steaming dishes,
traces her path from kitchen to table __
back and forth,
like a soldier ant, secure in its task.
My father, his sweater the color of rust and dried leaves,
sets the table slowly, carefully.
My brother uncorks the wine
and pours dark, red liquid into perfect glasses.
In the window, I see myself,
looking in and looking out.

Amy Ratcliffe '87

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