This poem considers resilience in our current moment.
Sun through cobalt glass pours a river
on hardwood floor. Lines contain grit
the broom could not. Outside, the weather
rearranges wheat until the field
fills with roman numerals brushed in gold.
Inside, nerves begin to soothe after a shock
that made the blood beat hot.
Clouds spread charcoal blue.
I try to count the field before night takes hold.
I don’t know if life will ever be fair
but when it’s quiet and without threat
I feel roots reach through earth,
and in my chest, a rhythm I remember.
Despite the wind, I keep the candles lit.
Maybe the world isn’t ending.
Maybe it’s a mirror that takes courage to see.