The
First Thanksgiving
Steven Wittenberg Gordon
They were the Flower of May
Those brave souls who
Left all they knew behind to sail unto
The Great Unknown.
Many did not survive the passage.
Many more perished within months
Of their arrival in the new world.
Disease took many.
Starvation many more.
Misguided they put most
Of their meager resources
Into building a temple to their god,
A god that drove them
Out of one land
Only to suffer greater still in another.
The natives of that land
Worshiped a different god.
They took pity on them.
Showed them how to net fish,
Sow corn and hunt for deer.
Legend has it that the aliens
Feasted their true saviors
One bright autumn day
By way of giving thanks
To them for their lives.
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