by Chris Reed
Sunday, November 15, 2020
My mother napped yesterday,
while I finished Swann’s Way.
Her water retention is down,
and we hear that someone
is unlocking the secrets of aging.
There are no words for the US
reaching eleven million cases
of coronavirus this morning,
although the eucharistic minister
wore a mask when she delivered
the host earlier.
The bird feeders were filled today
and promptly visited by a finch
and a red-bellied woodpecker.
Currently we are recording
the Giants-Eagles game, in which
Daniel Jones and the Giants are
getting downfield, as constriction
threatens a transfer of power,
school reopenings and life itself.
I search for an artificial wreath.
We have some breaking news—
a stag is walking past the window,
and we are making the call
that he is at least four years old.
My mother sees him and reaches
for the word that means him,
although we still have no word
on reality out of the White House.
The Giants won this one. Enjoy
what remains of your weekend.
Although relatively new to poetry writing, during the pandemic and sheltering in place with his post-stroke mother, reading and writing poetry have become Chris Reed’s go-to survival activities. Attending a zoom weekly poetry workshop has also been a gift and helped sustain sanity.
