In this quiet world
the trees will survive.
yellow adirondack chairs
face the sun
turning as our orbit
moves us through another day.
morning - afternoon - the night;
when the quiet is unsettling and
nothing masks what we dread.
in the morning,
on this cold spring day,
the warm sweet smell of hot cereal-
needed before the house warms
before the day tries, then fails.
Snowdrops, finding reason enough to bloom
are greeted as some magnificence
that makes us want to kneel
and put our cheek to the cold soil.
the trees are softening-
sap in their veins.
water is trickling through the culverts-
following a course hard beneath my feet.
in the sun, I stop to listen.
a man whose large white dog
ignores me stops to talk.
already we are intimate friends,
in our loneliness, our fear.
with our faces turned to the sun
we have things to talk about.
he tells me a bit of good news
that in these unrelenting days
blooms in me as a rite.
1 by Linda Shere | Poetry Fabric Box
$15.00Price
