A daffodil’s heavy bloom just fell
like a leaded weight into the cold earth.
Northeastern spring, one can expect
such a thing. The forecasters
all intuit snow. Mid-April, and I am alone
with my husband in our backyard.
I would like to suggest meaning
without moving into the saccharine.
Hard, these days, when the world
is an open wound and I am a stop gap
to someone with better words
than these. I want to say something true.
But this conflicts with the weird
way everything essential is lost
in transit. The space between
the dogs’ bark and my hearing of it.
The smoke rising from the Weber grill.
In this air, I am quarantined from
leaning into what I love. To love what
I love into the very thingness of it. To rise
into the sky on the back of a mourning dove.
What I mean is: everything I have ever wanted.
Yes, even the blue sky breaking through
the cloud cover. Yes, even the pink moon.
“Everything essential is lost in transit…” and “To love what I love into the very thing ness of it…” You have nailed it – the essence of our separation from living our lives.