I called this poem an "etude" because I liked the sound of the word. I had to look it up to find out what it meant. It is French for 'study," and I it works. This little meditation on small pleasures and quiet reassurances is a kind of "study." Kind of like a still-life drawing...
Etude for the pandemic
The world is afraid
and so am I
but this morning I woke
early and walked to the park where
I met a woman pushing a stroller
and as we chatted
(from an appropriate distance)
her little boy climbed
out and chased a squirrel
into a tree under which
he stood shouting up into
the high branches:
Hello! Hello! Hello! We laughed
and his mother said:
He’s in
charge of waking the squirrels.
All of them.And then I came home
and sat on the porch
at the glass topped table
with the rusty frame
and sipped my coffee
and watched the pollen
stirring like golden dust
and the sunlight slicing
a leaf with shadow and
the breeze stirring a fleck
of incandescent orange
and black into the air where it
fluttered round the yard,
hovering over
the table like a dove
while I sat with my cold coffee
waiting for the world to end.
But nothing happened except
a bee settled on the lip
of my cup and wandered the edge
of this solemn morning
with me.
The world is afraid
the bee hummed,
but filling the cup
it reminded me: we are alive
and that is enough
if only we live.
