Lately, I am capable only of small things

A lyrical missive from Olena Davis (1963-), whose new book I’m looking forward to reading, though this piece comes from her first, And Her Soul Out Of Nothing.

“Postcard”

Lately, I am capable only of small things.

Is it enough
to feel the heart swimming?

Jim is fine. Our first
garden is thick with spinach
& white radish. Strangely,
it is summer

but also winter & fall.

In response to your asking:
I fill the hours
then lick them shut.

Today, not a single word, but the birds
quietly nodding
as if someone had suggested
moving on.

What is that perfect thing
some one who once believed in god said?

Please don’t misunderstand:
We still suffer, but we are
happy.

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