A Morning Like This

This is the morning I finally succumb to sick.
Sick at heart – reading earthquakes in Nepal, uprisings
over race and cops, and thousands of other  stuff
on social media …mostly trivial matters , but
human.
Sick of voice, larynx on fire, throat dry and swollen.
I've given up; letting this virus have its way
with me. Perhaps now, healing can begin.

This is the morning my dog eats a nest of baby bunnies,
soft and downy. I turn my back, asking Death to come
quick and painless, while my eyes tear up
for babies everywhere lost, dying
abandoned.
Sick of mind, knowing the ways of this earth. Of
predator and hunter, unfairness and bullying. Of human
vulnerability expressed in art and poetry and innocence.

This is the morning my dad shoots a squirrel; pest digging

In flower beds, and discovers the bedridden woman two

houses down fondly watched that squirrel every

day. Imagine his chagrin and her loss. Sorry, just so

sorry.

This is the morning bluebirds come back. Harbingers

of joy;  the dying one’s  symbol of hope. This is the morning

all is well, of exquisite sunrise, of open heart and silent voice.