One day on the deck, the god
of gods pleasures your skin
but tomorrow sends
the god of ice
to swig you down.
Then the storm god
frowns and your house shakes,
thudding on the roof.
The cammellias bend and tremble.
You want to save them but
the planters roll on the patio,
your wind chimes scream
from their perches.
So wrap yourself in wool, think
of all the strays, human and other,
hoping they find cover, thinking
there but for the grace of God....
thinking of your cousin off the ventilator
after 28 days, being wheeled home by her man,
himself limping, wheezing;
thinking of the ambulance that came
for your neighbor, wondering what
jaws sprang overnight in his
yard-- just a day ago, you see him place
a Christmas tree in his green bucket.
How easily he wielded that nine-footer.
Somewhere hills are caving,
there are mud slides. Somewhere a car
is crossing a line.
A virus gains power.
Traumas creeping up behind us.
Striking. Out of the blue.
Out of sublime sunshine.
Picking a moment in their own time.
The gods have patience.
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