Everywhere I look, the news isn’t good.
Lies, lies, lies, and the outlook is grim.
Except for this one sweeping view,
the one from my picture window,
joy might be obsolete. I accept my fate.
I know I’m not God, even though
I’ve an upstairs view onto the street.
It’s April, and a few lovesick teens
spiral tousled paths to civics class.
Squirrels tightrope telephone wires,
underneath a confetti of cherry blossoms.
Territorial birds transform their quarrels
into the music of the sky, bell-like, chanting,
“It will be all right, right, right, right—”
I’ve one message to deliver the world.
Asked what matters; my answer’s always the same:
Take away these—sky, birds, music, kids,
squirrels, love, and cherry blossoms—then—
hope is a fat camel threading a needle.
Well-being requires such slender fiber,
weaving garments big shots rarely mention.
copyright 2017, Claire Germain Nail
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