Where Sylvia Plath’s “Blackberrying” and social distancing meet . . .
IN THE MORNING, WHERE I WALK
Out to the street where
cars have been parked for days, I know little
of what brings the birds
out of their hiding, what has come
of the neighbors who leave their trash cans
out long past the pickup, even the cat
we used to feed. Most blinds
are drawn, white walls against
the light, where I know there must still be
life inside. Hope, less so, less food
or supplies than what may
have previously lined the pantry, but
we find a way to survive. I line
the entry wall, hanging over the path
that leads up to our house
with more pine cones stuck thick
with peanut butter and birdseed, take
the dimensions of the hollow gap
along the path to build raised flower beds
in the spring, so we can go through
the summer with our bellies full
of heirlooms and greens.
Before I go back inside, I look
off in the distance, to the corner
of my street and the next, and see
the wild bushes. Crisp, brown leaves hang
after a mild winter, and I hope they will
be filled with blood-red vine in spring.
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