2 Horatio

Marilyn Mazur
this week
my spade forages spring ramps in the woods
we barbecue salmon, the patio white with snow
zoom, zoom, zoom—social distancing all day
I edit my grandson’s mandrill monkey poem
with tears, I sort old photos of my late sister
a zoom seder—a zeder—commingles us
I hum Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as I swab kitchen counters
my daughter will intubate infected patients tonight
a snowy ski trail snakes up the bare slope
the still-brown mountain boasts a line of green pine trees
Banded Galloway cows loll in my neighbor’s field
cloud shadows sit on the distant mountain
a dozen red robins dig worms in my front lawn
the rain leaves teardrops on the window
a sheriff’s car drives down the road twice daily
it will feel like Pearl Harbor this week
Sam Cooke croons Oh Mary, Don’t You Weep
we chant ancient prayers, murmurs that balm
my truck—with Vermont plates—jostles over a bump
here’s your order. thank you—I pick up groceries curbside
the chickadees sing: excuse me, excuse me, excuse me
what to do about the chirping bird’s nest in the fireplace?
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