Cranberries

by Stephanie Weisgerber of Sabillasville

Long ago, God reached down into Earth’s deepest closet

Intending to make a unique new deposit

There he found pits of sand, peat, and gravel

The legacy of glaciers, long miles having traveled

They leisurely sank as they melted away

Leaving traces of minerals and mud that betray

The pits we refer to so sharply as “Bogs”

The Creator once saw as a fruit’s synagogue

For he lovingly tended each twig, very fine

And tenderly spoke to each green on the vine

And he blew with his breath to the air chambers four

Until cranberries leaped out, more upon more!

When flooded they float to the surface for air

And that sight is true beauty, the fairest of fair

For the water does shimmer, surrounding his prize

The berry whose hidden and grows in disguise

The majestic red hue, like a royal king’s robe,

Or like the roses he sprinkled around the whole globe

The sweetness withheld, he became sentimental

A nostalgia coming only from being parental

For he pictured the Natives, the Pilgrims, and Quakers,

The early Pioneers, the Puritans, and Shakers,

The first bonded dinner, a perpetual Thanksgiving

For they were survivors, just hoping to keep living

In a land called America, that glorious place

A medley and mixture of signature grace

Where the water logged swamps can produce such a fruit

When undamaged, thrives forever, this indomitable root

Not to mention the nectar of cranberry juice

That magical liquid meant to seduce

But on Thanksgiving Day, we all know the boss

Isn’t turkey, but velvety Cranberry sauce