Irene O’Garden lives and writes in Garrison, New York.
Snow in May
Shocked robins stunned buds sapcracked twigs.
Tenderness
is lost to us
this season.
Dawn chorus addled as corona-shattered choirs;
brown and brittle fiddleheads arrested in mid-curl,
like students stunted, absent one another.
Tenderness is lost
to us this season.
Spring liquor kinked in the veins of the leaves;
circulation still as transportation,
though air still circulates,
and the stone planet with the lava heart
we know is moving, for the hour grows late.
Hours move in nonchalance of weather.
Tenderness is lost to us this season.
So very sad. We can only pray that this to shall pass.