In fourteen hundred and ninety two,
you thought you knew
that the world was small enough for you to grasp.
Still, you were spared by its unexpected vastness,
and still you insisted on closing both your fists
and your eyes, clutching your pleasant delusions of a world
small enough to own. Today we remember
that the rain falls down on the just and the unjust alike,
that the winners write the histories, right or wrong,
and this wild, cruel world's too much to comprehend.
Thanksgiving: a sonnet
17 hours ago