I am soft
And my heart is strong.

There is joy here, I tell you.

These are mournful times, I guess.
They say this isn’t a time for poets.
They say it loudly and often.

———

I walk the dog and unfocus my thoughts
Until it is only the dog and the sky and the street
And the houses and the pulling of the leash
And picking up the dog ****
And the feel of the dry dead leaves under my boots.

There is joy here, I tell you.
You don’t believe me.

It’s okay, I understand.
My grassy body has been devoured, too,
and my sweet breath stolen by the stink of the times.
I dare not speak of the rot for fear it will contaminate our sacred air.
Foolish, I know, to hang a curtain and call it a shield.

Still, I am soft
And my heart is strong.

———

I find myself staring out the window more than I used to,
Memorizing the backyard.

There’s an owl who lives in the towering evergreen right outside the nursery,
(A good omen, probably. I haven’t heard otherwise.)
That tree is said to have been a Christmas tree way back when,
now standing sentinel,
guarding the child who sleeps in its shade.

I purposely do not clean the handprint above the lightswitch in the hallway.
Its hand long gone,
A baker, her family said. The hand that planted our tree.

There is joy here, I tell you.
A weapon of defiance.
This isn’t a time for poets, they say.
They say it loudly and often.

And still, I am soft
And my heart is strong.
I sharpen my pen
And wait for the battles to come.