There seems to be little escape, the slowly advancing disaster inching ever closer. Lists of numbers and names gain momentum in the daily news, becoming familiar, tugging heart strings in ways foreign and acute. Days march forward, frogs returning to ponds, birdsong greeting an ever earlier sunrise. Summer seemed to hold promise, yet this, too, has become more nebulous and fragile. To see your face is lovely, to feel your touch would be healing.
Categories: Poetry