The Small Things
by Mary Jo Balistreri
A Monday in September, the moon hangs pale.
On the window, a few raindrops.
Quiet in my corner chair on the porch, I close
my eyes, inhale the clean, fresh scent of petrichor.
On my lap, a copy of James Wright’s,
The Shape of Light. His sun and Italy bring me
where I need to go, his words a balm
in this violent political climate, in the rage
of the Pandemic that closes us in upon ourselves.
Looking up from the wild dill blossoms
in Anghiari, a migrating hummingbird
nectars in the mandala here. A flash, a glimpse
missed all summer. A tinge of hope nestles
in my chest. Sigh … No need for lament.
Cooler weather’s coming. Rain even brought
the columbine back for a short while. The drought
is past. Crickets will replace cicadas;
the mandate for masks will go away. We’ll walk
to our favorite restaurant. Meet friends. The key
I tell myself is gratitude for the little things:
a bird kissing a pink flower, the leisure to sit
on one’s porch, read a good book. The ability to see,
feel and hear life’s symphony still playing. Its chords
always harmonic and dissonant, its waves