There's always room in a human for remorse,
For at least the nagging notion something
Could be done better. That's what the runes
Suggested until they hinted something else.
Donna Jean did the interpreting. Body did
The pulling out of the velvet bag. Gift.
Gate. Nourishment. Plenitude before
The pause that releases the past. Self
Did the wishing that, for this once, the year
Would be a benison, a mercy, when all signs
Were that it would be difficult and highly
Unpleasant merely to survive, the last year
Of either life or relative respect and freedom.
Daughter played outside in the blossoms
Of a late-arriving spring, picking bunches
From the branches and the ground, pink,
Blue, and white. Inside the shop, encaustics
Hung on the walls, poppets sat on shelves,
And the soul, which flitted between words
And runes, a mayfly refusing all acquiring,
Touched the walls as if artworks were Braille.
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