The Garden
by Michael Escoubas

In a season of Coronavirus,
masks and civil strife, I pause
beneath a yellow aspen tree,
my Tree of Life. Here I sip
a glass of sweet sun tea
as the wind tousles my hair
and gently sways canary flowers.

In quietude I return to Motown
to The Supremes and Cindy Birdsong,
to memories of another viral time:
Vietnam, campus riots, the march
on Edmund Pettus bridge, Selma,
billy clubs and Bloody Sunday.

The garden served me well—
I needed a place to rest and think,
collect my sense of right and wrong,
then decide how I might help
my fellow man. I heard the wind,
then, as I hear it now,
Offer a cup of cold water
to any person who has a need.

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