every morning, beneath the trees

when much of the city is sleeping

and preparing for more of the same;

walls, information, terror, doubt.

You tell me that the sky is on a kind of holiday,

deep breathing, pink, still.

You talk about the sun,

so low and tender you can stare it in the eye.

The flowers are still showing up for work.

I know that I love you.

Everything around us whispers.

It is up to us what we hear.

I think that when this time is over

and we are almost nearly remembering all this,

you will be so full up of the raw, living beauty

you have so diligently collected each morning

and the world will have turned,

heaving with its newest learnings.

I think there is gorgeous anarchy in not knowing

quite where this will take us.

I worry. You worry, but here we are.

Right now, all there is to do is live.

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