Thanksgiving, the Year of Covid-19
We passed the dish of memory,
transferring without hand-touching the squirrel-shaped mold–
its ceramic a bit care-worn, appearing empty,
though we knew it was full of recollections and dreams,
tart and sweet, like the cranberry sauce that once filled it,
and would do so again. Now these thoughts of past Thanksgivings,
filled it, dripping over to fall in tears.
It won’t be the same, we say, and do you remember?
Her laugh, our laughs together–
not together this year
Here and Hereafter
From misted dreams, the clouds blow back black
as sky-ships spray incandescent shimmer,
and with whispered wonder
sing, bring, ring-in the pink-rosed day.
This after disaster, hereafter and if–
the moon comes blue, and hums a riff
for the sad sea, and those you see, in-between drifts
of shadow and shine, the haunted souls
of those who played with diamond cool, embracing now
the darkest deep, finding that water breaks, and aches
without why and whenever, with roars, ripples, waves, and swell
from here into hereafter,
and if, and if, and if. . .
Shelter for Dreams
Dawn blush brightens the grey,
over the rippling river
heron poses in sunrise salutation.
In silvered blues,
through shadows to shimmer,
waves roll out and slide back in,
the moon waxes and wanes,
and time flows,
through tide pools,
reflecting clouds and light,
giving shelter to dreams.
Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey. Her poetry and short fiction have been published recently in Black Bough Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, Nightingale and Sparrow, Twist in Time, and Wellington Street Review.