A Few Things About a Few Things (a poem after election day 11/03/20)

—by Michael Starobin

The world undone;

the blazing sun:

only a few things matter in the heat, 

or the cold. 

Shelter, sure. 

Water: pure.

Even…finding a cure. 

But what matters 

for the day to be whole?

Time fleets. 

It leaves like the leaves of the trees

            falling beneath

            the branches that reach. 

We rake, we clean,

calculate the mean,

sort our work, and then--

            in-between—

there are a few things--

            sights unseen--

            yet: real.

Rains and snows come when they come.

Plans have a way of coming undone. 

We all place a bet,

to avoid getting wet,

and with challenges met, 

            some people still blame the sky.

It’s either full of personal clouds

or inspiration for paintings,

            for poetry,

                        for burrowing into blankets, together. 

Clouds rain. That’s what they do. 

Night falls; day breaks: 

            another damp stone to move. 

Even so, with hands chaffed and muscles sore--

            a deepening ache for—  

                        —please—

                                    no more— 

there are a few things. 

Everything else 

defines the kinds 

of stories we tell:

the touch, the taste, 

the sights, the smell. 

Then, 

it must be about narratives-- 

the ones we tell each other

and the ones we tell ourselves. 

Consider: 

the rain, the mud, the cold slate sky.

Soaked plans. 

Time flies and will not return. 

Some stories focus the sodden cold,

the lonely road,

the vacant house, 

the angry spouse.

Suspend. 

Look around. 

Blossoms bloom from muddy ground.