In these virucene days when I want to walk,
I take stock of the stalks frying in my wok
And divert my mind to the freewheeling hawk
Watching for tiny snow creatures to stalk.
The wingbeats, soft rustle, parting fair
The thin mountain air, so clear, so rare
Muffling the despair, when I declare
That the stalks are burning in my cookware.
I think of the prairies, Willa Cather and weight
Of berries she carries for boys on the their way to war
And my worries, my furies, my indiscriminate
Adversaries fade out the front door once more.
Finally, when I’m only and pronely couching it
Lonely picking burned stalks, denouncing it
I squash my heard heart astounding it
And open up to the beauty’s encore