Each night I call for my love,
Yet I get no response.

Each day I think of my sweetheart,
But I can’t get further than a thought.

Each evening I cry for my darling,
However tears solve nothing.

Each hour I picture my angel,
Though the image is no longer clear.

Refrain from purchasing
Racoon at your local
Wet market.
In your belly,
It can spelly,
Corona.

The sun sets later,
There's more to see.
The shadows that follow us
Grow longer,
But the nights are shorter;
And the brilliance of morning
Splashes us with a new day
Nothing can disparage.
We have unclimaxed stories,
With heroes not yet heralded.
There is hope in our shadows,
There is peace at dusk.

Except for the amber light
in the yard

and for the light
over

our neighbors
garage

it is still dark

and the question

what makes a poem
a poem

and is it ok to just
sit and enjoy

this time of day
where one can feel

like they're comfortably
pickled

in an inky
plasma

and floating under
glass

Whit Howland © 2020

If you can see
the light at the end of the tunnel
and it's not an oncoming train

please fill me in
on what this all meant
because

lately,

I've been
stumbling and fumbling
for a poem

and can't seem to
find one

Whit Howland © 2020