A chill, turncoat spring,
the dogwoods too white, cold as porcelain,
the honeysuckle’s many fallen flowers
a dust of petals dry, mush when it rained;
the birds, staking out territories in song,
alien, iterative, nailing notes.
Perhaps another pestilential species, waiting?
No one could say.
Hope came down to this – the televised brave,
not quite human in their masks and scrubs;
a neighbor’s emailed offering
“Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Meantime, we cultivated our quarantined desires,
above all, for the estival sun,
its unequivocal heat and light
absolute — as we are, no less
insistent on health and life.
Page Nelson is a volunteer gardener for the City of Charlottesville and a retired university librarian. His poems have appeared here and there. He was, for eight years, co-director of Zeugma, a free, online workshop for young and developing poets.
Latest posts by Page Nelson (see all)
- Towards Zenith - June 21, 2021