As if unknowns have not always been nearby, hovering
at edge of sight, beyond reach but closing in now,
still unknown. All our questions rise without reply.
Peace workers, be praised. May you multiply until
there’s no more need. May you rest till the rest is easy.
May your harvest be in health not death, not destruction.
When will the wars be over? We sign petitions to feel
we are doing our bit, to act in dispelling disconnect.
Art helps us stitch together disparity and our discontent.
We wait, still sequestered, connected or isolated, missing
touch, missing what we used to call normal. May we turn
off the news sometimes and tune in to spring joys instead.
Last night, lightning and hail the size of loonies lit
up the sky at the pink full moon but no frogs are raining
and forsythia has not forsaken us. Toads are peeping,
myrtle is purpling and the sun, sweet sun, is warming
our faces as forget-me-nots pop their determined way up
through damp earth. Grief is love unexpressed, undeterred.