I tried to marry
the silence, take it
inside like a package

of seeds, wait
for signs of fresh
buds & lustrous

blooms. I called it
opportunity. In long
wedges of time

I meditated, I imagined
neighbors reconciling.
It wasn’t until the eighth

month I realized the opportunity
was elsewhere. Of what
use are quiet epiphanies when death

is growing confidently like a Category 5
headed for the coast? Deeper
in the time of covid I plead

to the tangerine
sunrise. I try to take
faith in new life — early

blooming iris, billowing
like fresh spun silk, the forsythia
exploding in a golden

arrival.  But some days
I am helpless as a vagabond
sheltered by rain-soaked

cardboard.  Is it enough to remove
myself from the human
chain of infectors? Has someone

lived because I sealed myself off
from the sprinkled beads
of our breath?