Over ripe, hung low
from heaven’s branches, 
I suppose-
or the sky for those 
who believe in science
and have lost faith in an
exalted power;

but to the clouds,
hung heavy
forming a dome blocking
any sunlight or set-
dismissive of our collective
need for it to drop &
soak into the ground;

somewhere, above it,
perfect fruit lies-
science or God
be damned, for 
the joy in the break
is my wish alone.

End of March

Windows cleaned
for spring
to shine
on through;

salmon pink
tiger striped
darkening sky
settled instead.


The window was opened for the cat to perch 
to get a sense of the young spring air; suddenly, 
flurries interrupted hope of a southern breath 
as they blew through to the warmer room like
phantom flakes - shimmery and iradescent
in all of their hundred hurries through the screen 
dissolving on sight leaving no trace of existence.

The room that had once sparkled grew dreary and dull;
the cat jumped off the window ledge and withdrew,
her tail up and march away indicative of what the delight’s
disappearance had meant for she and I who looked for 
respite from the quarantine that had caught us up inside:
hers as a feline drawn to March’s sudden bird song,
me, the threat of a bacteria let loose in my lungs.

I didn’t exit the room as quickly as the cat for hope
that a few errant snowflakes would still cross over
even though the outside cold burned through my throat
and I burrowed under a blanket to tame the chills.