One more morning of nothing yet.
Into this vigilant listening
stiff green spears
have pushed up overnight—
did they say something?
Just birdsong
in the bare trees, sometimes a siren.
Back indoors, my hands under the tap
scrubbing themselves red
when I hear
a familiar, back-brain yapping
and think, okay,
at least this one I know.
If I learn to love one week after another,
one day like the next on the wide prairie
of what we don't know.
If I hold the worst news at six feet
and wean myself from wanting it.
If we can warm to these new go-betweens,
porous or not, safer than skin.
If we admit we're all confirmed cases.
Then? What's left to wish?
Well, of course:
another hour, another year
returned to the crowded hall,
the coughing throng,
shoulder to shoulder
among our fellow mortals.
Meanwhile, an April wind
sharpens its knives
as my son heads out to get us groceries—
intent, making no wrong moves.
So listen:
keep him safe, in his casual armor,
and you can name your price.
