Grief dares us to love once more. – Terry Tempest Williams
they say – someone needs to love –
and poets search for particulars –
bees lighting on hyssop, two-inch
rainfall in a drought, the overwhelm
smell of the oriental lily. Even the puny
buttercup gets a line, the fluting male
cardinal’s call two or three, and fading
stubbornness of a golden rose a sonnet.
I understand seeking resilience,
what’s sacred just outside the door
or in the first cup of coffee. A balm
we need for the flaying we take
day after day as hot skies
taunt dry lake beds. Where we lose
count of the dead or dying.
A little girl with pink bows on her pigtails
walks the mall holding her mother’s hand.
I was once that girl
and once that mother.
They smile at each other
in the smell of cinnamon rolls.
Despite sugar spreading in air,
my gut churns. Shootings,
Roe gone, world-wide over-the top
sweltering. I can’t see one detail here
that transforms my fear into cheers.
Maybe outside, transient mirage
pools on the freeway. Chicory’s blue.
The struggle of my hardy pond lily
to bloom in so little water,
hard work to live three days.