thanksgiving poem

thou unrelenting past
perhaps
let us pity those who are better off than we are
look out upon the stars, my love
night is dark, and the winter winds
awful truths these be
so lost
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
when freedom from her mountain height
softly weeping
some of the hurts you have cured
do you remember
who is the runner in the skies