Some of the bulbs are planted.

Some are not. A wet chill settles

on the city. We are deep into October,

houses festooned with webs and skeletons.

Actual deaths are mounting, the virus

does not hibernate, a furtive creature.

We don’t know when this will all

become a bad dream.

 

                                        One stubborn tomato

hangs on, a sickly yellow. Finally,

the laurel’s stopped dropping the messy

purple berries and I don’t have to hopscotch

to my car. My neighbor tells me the pits contain

cyanide – handy.

 

Winter will be long and cruel.

Days of rain-patter and dull, gray skies,

the sodden weight of isolation.

If hope appears out on the gnarled tree limb,

I’ll welcome it in to dry its feathers, sip

from the saucer and nest in the kitchen,

near the stove until this dim season

has given way to light.