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Like a palimpsest
with traces of the past
showing through,
our table
recapitulates
her favorite feast:
the iconic bird
with its secret
wishbone;
baskets of Indian corn;
a still life of winter
vegetables;
and there,
three generations down,
her pale blue eyes
watching
from the child's
oblivious face.
Even candles leave behind
invisible fragrance,
and every book
on every shelf
has its half-imagined
sequel.
- "Thanksgiving Ghost" by Linda Pastan, from her 2012 poetry collection Traveling Light
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