Jane Wallace Pearson
April 2020 Sunday Daffodils don’t care. Impassive on the sill above the sink, their yellow-deckled edges remind you of all the letters you never had time to write and now you do. Monday I expect no one to be impressed by my private economies, how I dress; I wear only one sweater; eat the last small piece of cheese; usher a fly out the back door to please no one. God maybe. Tuesday [“Whose woods these are….”] A young stranger came to our door today, wondering. I shook his hand, forgetting, and said I didn’t know. As he walked away I was arrested by the seat of his pants, stained with fingers of oil and dust, sagging flat as an open palm, gray-green of dying grass.
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