Marilyn Mazur

my spade forages spring ramps in the woods we barbecue salmon, the patio white with snow zoom, zoom, zoom—social distancing all day I edit my grandson’s mandrill monkey poem with tears, I sort old photos of my late sister a zoom seder—a zeder—commingles us I hum Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as I swab kitchen counters my daughter will intubate infected patients tonight

a snowy ski trail snakes up the bare slope the still-brown mountain boasts a line of green pine trees Banded Galloway cows loll in my neighbor’s field cloud shadows sit on the distant mountain a dozen red robins dig worms in my front lawn the rain leaves teardrops on the window a sheriff’s car drives down the road twice daily

it will feel like Pearl Harbor this week Sam Cooke croons Oh Mary, Don’t You Weep we chant ancient prayers, murmurs that balm my truck—with Vermont plates—jostles over a bump here’s your order. thank you—I pick up groceries curbside the chickadees sing: excuse me, excuse me, excuse me what to do about the chirping bird’s nest in the fireplace?