Blue grass, dead grass, my head's a bouquet
Its florid aperture beats like a hummingbird, clipped
Without wing to take flight or throat to sing
My eyes drink in the glossed clamor of screens
Though no one there or here returns my gaze
Podcasts sub for laughs, scarves morph into masks
All we leave unsaid rims this bitter cup
Sun rises and sets, the breath exalted
In ritual as I wash my hands again
Flipflop from annoyance to gratitude
I pluck May’s first blooms like resonant strings
Marvel at intrinsic begin-agains
And leave wreaths ringing at mourners’ doors:
It is unfortunate but true and necessary