chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: chickadee

poem

The evolution

For a while, in the first months
of the pandemic, you feared your hands:

that they might be the engine of your destruction,
grab from the air, from book or doorknob,

newspaper or broccoli, the errant cell calling
to your lungs. Those hands, lathered, rinsed,

laundry hung out in a dust storm, dragged back in,
washed again. And your face, itching, yearning

for them, abandoned lover. Later, the air itself
became suspect and you held your breath on the trail,

in the grocery store, at the mailbox. Yet, shocked
by your isolation, your fear of contamination,

you came to enjoy the whims of unstructured days,
the naps and chickadees and jigsaw puzzles.

You called old friends, cleaned cupboards, ticked tasks
off your list, learned new technology. You had

no passport, no visa for the country called the future.
The microorganism would stamp your documents,

or not. So you gardened as if someone else
might harvest the beautiful purple peapods,

the lettuce, even the sudden radishes.
And then, as predictions became less dire,

you discovered a new fear:
that life would return to normal.

© J.I. Kleinberg

found poem: anywhere

morning song…

black-capped chickadee
In the dawn dark, a bird calls plaintively, a single sad note repeated, repeated. I press my face close to the window to look and listen. He’s hidden by the dark and the shrubs, but, faintly, between each call, I hear the second, lower note of the chickadee’s love song, faded, worn thin from this month’s hopeful singing.
—–
chickadee photo: Nature’s Pic’s

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