The stolid turkey in my freezer
has been hibernating a full year,
a left-over from the year before.
Melting in my kitchen sink
like some sci-fi experiment,
I expected his wings to furl, fly
into the oven and blush red-brown
like leaves littering the landscape
of a pastoral that was habitual
under my wandering feet in autumn
as I walk unconscious in a world
teaming with wonder sleeping
under the crackling patina of morning frost
which evokes humble Thanksgiving.