thanksgiving

If I were a pumpkin,
would you pick me from the patch?
Would you scoop out my seeds,
carve a smile onto my face,
and fill me up with light?
Would I sit with you on the front porch
every night?
If that’s where I grew old,
I wouldn’t mind.

If I were a pumpkin,
would you bake me into a pie?
Would you mix me up with cinnamon,
place me gently in the oven,
and watch me rise?
Would you top me with the whipped cream
of your delight?
If that’s what you had in mind,
it would be alright.

If I were a person
and not a pumpkin,
would you choose me just the same-
if I were not always sweet and smiling,
and took much longer to decay?
By grace, in the wonders of the night
and the long labor of the day,
would we join an eternal Thanksgiving
and daily give ourselves away?