The tree under which my door-side seat sits
Is a petulant one. It persistently spits
A curled yellow leaf on my laptop or plate,
In reminder of summer’s inescapable fate.
This would be annoying in a typical year;
A plant shedding parts into one’s amber beer
Or perhaps on their schnitzel, or onto their skin,
Or in their date’s botanical mixture of gin.
But this year adds a now-familiar displeasure;
As one cannot help but continue to measure
The ways that their life has now solidly strayed
From typical patterns into plans yet unmade,
Vacations they canceled and jobs they departed,
Now-fallow gym memberships that they started,
The point-of-no-return lines that were crossed,
And — easily worst — all the people they lost.
I’m doing my best just to grapple and wrest
This from being a list of the ways that I’m stressed.
So with that in mind I’ll no longer mope,
And try manifesting the things that I hope.
I hope that humanity’s able to quash
Threats to its existence because, oh my gosh,
If we managed to lick climate change, I’d admire us.
(And that’s not even to speak of the virus.)
I hope my friends, partner, and folks remain healthy.
I hope that justice finds its way to the wealthy,
And the suffering receive according to need
Rather than by the restrictions of greed.
I hope to see home again, hopefully soon.
I hope that my body and brain will fine-tune
And finally work in the way I expect.
I hope something results from the folks I elect.
At best I hope for understanding and peace,
At worst, that the world’s ugliness tends to decrease.
I hope good things come to the good, and at last,
I hope this tree’s next leaf doesn’t land in my glass.