One day a year, that’s all you get.
My age in days, in all my time.
Beyond your years, ’tis with regret,
would take to give you, one of mine.
This might seem like a cunning plan,
to escape my obligation.
But I conclude – it’s rude to cram,
my thanks in finite occupation.
I think my thanks can more be known,
by drawing from the years we’ve spent.
Instead of the thanks you think I’ve shown,
think of the things our time has lent.
Considering this reality,
one day of thanks’ absurdity.
Serves only a calamity,
to undisturbed affinity.
What’s greater still, than both our years,
is this Earth still endures.
And with it lives, transcends our fears,
that thanks endured, secure.