Susan Morse
Fact: Spring Continues Unabashed
as I step out my front door and disturb
a quilt covering of pink snow, the drift
of cherry blossoms which has spiraled
down under a faint breeze and grey skies.
Good, no one around! I can walk in peace
on my almost-daily Covid-19 route, noting
recent dressings of orange, red and plum leaves
on Japanese maples, the purple of wisteria
at the green two-story where the woman owns
a tabby cat named Toby, her new planting
of a cream-colored snowball bush just
coming into bloom.
Everywhere color: vibrant!
including a white nitrile glove flattened
on the corner of 14th and Court Street,
the left index finger askew as if some large
or small
tragedy happened here in the mud,
while nearby blue centaura and purple
bearded iris stand tall, averting their eyes,
crowns pointing skyward as if to avoid
all the dirty little secrets
of April 2020.
2020 Was the Lost Year
When time frayed piece by piece,
a hand-sewn quilt relinquishing its seams.
Though seemingly stitched in haphazard patterns
like the quilts of Gees Bend, the blocks awry,
threads and boundaries sometimes shearing, our history
before seemed artfully sewn and delicately maintained.
Now the needle and thimble no longer fit our clumsy fingers,
each uptick of thread too taut with friction, each new piece
a bit more crooked, leaning into the general decline
of our civilities.
