She goes to meet Thanksgiving once again, where the full blossom of love happens. Another year gone by, but she never really changes: Still living with the most tender heart, and the keenest, sweetest nostalgia. Nostalgia is her evergoing mood.

Nostalgia is her Thanksgetting.

Writ permanently in her heart is this time, the yearly November, the time where the flowering of this life means fields of roses, iris, lilies, stargazers, the lowly carnation, peonies, tulips–fields and fields of these blooms between her world and the lands apiece of the Great Plains, the Rocky Mountains, oh Centennial State! Where the Thanksgivings are amber grass and full, leafy, unrestrained thankfulness, where the music and chants of gratitude grow so loud into crescendo’d bliss that they fly o’er the rivers of California, o’er the barren miles of dust in Nevada, o’er the Indian Reservations of Utah, above Great Basin, o’er all the species of cacti in low areas and the wild, ochre blooms in the foothills…the music of the fall heart passes through all of this.

Etched forever in her history is a purposeful Harvest of Gratitude, expecially when life is hard. Know she understands her blessings aren’t universal or common and that the goodness has been gifted to her outside of her own power. She could never create this perfection alone, but she recognizes the sweetness of Thanksgiving when it comes, and through some secret intuitiveness, she understands that it is set upon her through the mercy and love of God.

Happy Thanksgiving.