My neighbor brings me a page from her coloring
book, a rabbit in soft pencil, green and brown.
She colors to occupy the long days and nights
of the pandemic.  I don’t tape it to the fridge
but prop it up in the kitchen along with the notes
and cards I want to hold onto for a while,
pieces of paper I can’t quite bring myself
to throw away, my own silent support system
on my countertop.  As I pass them each day,
do I only imagine they eit a quiet glow?