When times are dark and seem to be getting darker, sweet pastoral reflections feel a little disingenuous.
Each of these lines contains five silent prayers,
accent falling on the silence. Rhyme scheme
is irregular as nothing is similar to anything.
Voice is only person – mask over my mouth
muffling words beyond hearing across vast
social distance – what little one can find to say.
Half a year now in the waiting room. Who can say
how much longer? The clock says only tick-tock,
heart says only lub-dup. What else can be said?
Wildfire will be quenched or wildfire will spread;
America will fall or will find some way forward.
The waiting room is empty but for the waiting.