Corona (1)
Sheila Black

Corona (1)

In half-empty Colorado Springs,
we are thinking about trees,
which have no choice about not
moving, while shelves empty as people
hoard things they are not sure
they will need. The aspens are yellow
from winter; the spring will be late
this year. I will take nothing from
this place but a handful of dried
cherries. An image of my daughter
kicking wet leaves. We speak too much of
what the aura of danger might be,
if we can see it or not, if we can feel
a sickness spreading before it
arrives. We speak of how each year
we miss the day in autumn when
the aspen shudders slightly and
the leaves fall all at once. Their time
different than ours; we have never
even caught the moment of their
blooming. Will our quarantine
from the loud noise of our lives
help us see inside? I crowd myself
with visions meant to comfort me
in which I drink their sap with my children,
my mouth dripping with a
cold gold, gold of crowns, the light
around a moon or minor planet
that makes it seem so much
more than it is.

Sheila Black

is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Iron, Ardent (Educe Press, 2017). She is a co-editor of Beauty is a Verb: The New Poetry of Disability (Cinco Puntos Press, 2011). Her poems have appeared in PoetryThe Birmingham ReviewThe New York Times, and other places. She lives in San Antonio, Texas.