This poem I’ve always loved by Olena Kalytiak Davis (1963-) feels so eerily apt right now.
“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.
live in the layers 