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

continually changing

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