A poem by Beverly Stock.
Our ancestors celebrating a harvest in 1621,
Alarmed their neighbors by firing off their guns,
Nearby Wampanoag Indians, ran and came to be,
The Pilgrims' dinner guests amongst the cedar trees.
Tensions ran high among the Wampanoag people,
The Pilgrims' sincerity seemed curiously feeble.
The Indian warriors, to watch the strangers more,
Camped in the woods, in the dark, right next door.
So then, what is Thanksgiving and what has it wrought?
Some Natives were in mourning, for what they got.
Other Natives gathered to rejoice in tribal lexicons,
And celebrate harvests like when river fish spawn.
This year our family’s masked, a small group, new routine,
Roast turkey and dressing while resisting Covid 19.
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