Seriously, the tree: Half orange/half green, like the reunification of Ireland. A dream on the misty-eyed lids of the hopeful. This is what I’d like to be – hopeful. A believer in rainbows, leprechauns and pots of gold.
Today, the trees are gold – birches with smooth silver bark, young and unweathered. Trees that still believe in marvelous moments.
I never ate Lucky Charms because their colors were too fake to be appetizing. But in the meadow near our house, my child was a whiz at finding four-leafed clovers.
When my friend calls again, I tell him his sadness is normal. Sad droplets in the air we breathe. Sputtering words of our leader spewing abuse and infection.
It is hard to contemplate marvelous moments on overcast days, but yesterday, an energy and crispness in the air, a rainfall of rainbow-colored leaves.
My friend makes lists of things to do each day to keep the sadness from encroaching:
— Look out the windows at the rain on the cityscape
— Paint the gargoyle on the other side of the street
— Count the ratio of masked to non-masked. Record the results on a chart and report to the Board of Health
In our small town, they are trying to fire the Board of Health. Infection under every fallen leaf.
This poem has digressed from its focus on marvelous moments, even though today the sun is brilliant. I pick up leaves in the woods. They are deep red, the color of blood. In the shortening days, we soak up sun like bears getting ready for bleak.
I could spray the sun as an antidote to sadness. Sun-spray on the doorknobs, the light switches, the faucet handles. Sun wraps its beary arms from behind my body. Whispers in my ear, “You. Are marvelous.”
D. Dina Friedman received two Pushcart Prize nominations and has published in many literary journals. She is the author of two award-winning novels, ESCAPING INTO THE NIGHT (Simon & Schuster) and PLAYING DAD’S SONG (Farrar, Straus, Giroux) and one chapbook of poetry, WOLF IN THE SUITCASE (Finishing Line Press). http://www.ddinafriedman.com