The Maple

The maple is taller than yesterday,
peppered with birds and orange bloom – aloof
below an unscarred blue.

But that is the maple, those are the birds,
and that is the sky.

And though I cannot unsee
unfettered Spring, I cannot unsee
suspicion, the revulsion of hands,
breath and similar heats
that strain against our leaning.

I cannot unknow the slow drawn wind
and the shattered hope
clung brief in a tube.

Take to your pens, dear ones,
mark this time – scrawl that once
in a Spring not come, shriveled
and short of breath,
all Springs must take their measure.

Image: Tara Meinczinger on Unsplash

Published in “Poetic Medicine in the Time of Pandemic” ©2020 by Lotus Leaf LLC.

14 Thoughts

    1. Thank you Mae. I was just expressing to Mr. Stainsby that at the end of this pandemic, there is going to be a massive archive of works from around the world all addressing the experience of this event. I do hope that someone has the time and ambition to compile it in its entirety.


    1. I was hoping it would be a clarion call. I think it important that the voices of everyday people be transcribed and compiled to give evidence to what I assume will be a generalized and statistic laden history down the road.


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