Brought to you in living Technicolor.

And bigger than any wide-screen TV.

Don’t touch that dial.

The moment has come.

Dinner is served.

Thanksgiving—a traditional meal of many colors.

Equal to a painter’s palette.

Each dish bringing something different to the table.

Kinda like people.

The golden brown turkey.

The golden yellow yams.

The dressing (aka stuffing) colored in camouflage.

Orange carrots.

What’s green, brown, and beige, and always served at Thanksgiving?

(Green bean-onion ring casserole with cream of mushroom soup.)

The table groans with food.

Red cranberries.

White mashed potatoes.

Brown gravy.

Multi-colored jello mold.

Light green salad.

Dark green pickles.

Black olives.

Orange sweet potatoes.

Green celery stuffed with white cream cheese.

Golden brown biscuits.

Yellow butter.

Pumpkin pie (the color of…pumpkin).

White whipped cream.

Leaves of every color falling to the ground.

The ground is brown.

The coastal dry.

Bluestem dark pink.

Sun intensely white on the western horizon.

Stars especially sharp against midnight blue.

The cornucopia overflows.

Come gather round.

Take your seat.

The day is short.

The moment is passing.

Give thanks.

And dig in.

Don’t worry about overeating.

You can walk it off the next day.

Around the square.

Black Friday.

Shop local.

(Don’t look now, but here comes Christmas.)

That’s Mason.

Read more poetry!

Renee Walker is a poet, writer, and real estate broker on the Square with her canine assistant, Buster. 


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