She came every morning to draw water
Like an old bat staggering up the field:
The pump’s whooping cough, the bucket’s clatter
And slow diminuendo as it filled,
Announced her. I recall
Her gray apron, the pocked white enamel
Of the brimming bucket, and the treble
Creak of her voice like the pump’s handle.
Nights when a full moon lifted past her gable
It fell back through her window and would lie
Into the water set out on the table.
Where I have dipped to drink again, to be
Faithful to the admonishment on her cup,
Remember the Giver fading off the lip.
―Seamus Heaney
Who are the givers you remember with gratitude this Thanksgiving?
This is a lovely poem, filled with references that bring memories alive as well as using language is such a graceful way. Remembering a giver as well as those who seek for the giver and find just a little bit is important, especially these days. Helping those counts, always.