How Strange the World

How strange the world
Would seem to me, my own
Senses bloated with the mural
Of disease, with pandemic brain

And the darkness of the day,
If not for these familiar trees,
Hung with bulbs of rain
That fall in just the way

That the gravity of the age
Demands, which, in the grey
Of winter is a gauge
Beyond my human hands.

January 17th, 2024
Magnolia