HAPPY HARVEST

Hundreds of years ago, began the tale,
Ancestors of Americans,
Pilgrims, and Indians from a wood's trail,
Paraded out a feast, grown with their hands;
Yielded from the bounty of the land.

Having toiled throughout the year,
Americans still sit and dine,
Reveling in holiday cheer.
Vined grapes were squeezed to make the wine.
Elsewhere at soup kitchens they stand in line,
Some have no family or friends of their own,
Thankful not to have to be hungry all alone.