Steven Schroeder | to touch each other with our eyes
Two crows take it all in, say nothing
but move on as I pass, beneath them.
Cardinals, out of sight, sing Spring,
and squills lie low as it passes,
as they do when it is no longer new.
Gulls gather on the grass in the space
that divides the boulevard that was once
the midway of an exposition of the whole
world. After ten thousand days, we might begin
to learn to touch each other with our eyes
and make a place for life that advances
when we retreat.
Sun has risen by the time I circle back,
and one heron passes above me,
gliding westward, silent,
intent on something I cannot see.
Chicago
19 April 2020
from sheltering in place | 2020
