Month Twelve

By Tom Ehrich 

O day of clouds and grayness 

Not quite cold, not quite warm 

Snow going, not yet gone 

Sun height’ning, not yet high 

A year of masks and virus 

A month like all the rest 

Alive, and glad for it 

Cut off, and sad for it 

No, not sad, just weary 

Flat vista, with no break 

A full tank, but nowhere 

To go, not now, not yet 

A small screen bears family 

Colleagues stare at cameras 

We wait our turn to speak 

Polite tension, no spark  

I write more than ever 

What else have I to do 

But seem to capture less 

My voice slack and ordered 

Waiting for a light’s shine 

That doesn’t quite break through 

A bird’s song that survives 

Restless, fearful silence 

Is this the year’s month two 

Or pandemic’s month twelve 

Or a new season in  

Aging’s journey to soil 

A landscape needs features 

Time needs beats and measures 

Heart needs colors and shapes 

Clouds and gray aren’t enough 

Come gentle spring, mildness 

Come to gray souls, warming 

Land and skin and spirit 

Lifting masks and distance 

Let us see faces we miss 

Mouths shaping words and smiles 

Backs leaning in to hear 

Hands reaching forth for touch