Arrangements Made in a Pandemic
Susan Barry-Schulz
I’m thinking pussy willows
before they lose their sheen and puddles
of forsythia shouting yellow
from the darkness
at the curb the music
might as well be the blanketed
horse neighing softly at the barn door
behind a swaying fringe of weeping
willow and far away a rooster
crowing no matter the time
a swarm of gnats
a bit of humidity see to it
unless its summer when it happens
in that case maybe watermelon and American flags
fireworks and fireflies a familiar
laugh floating through the screen door
from the front porch where someone
pulls a cold hand up from a cooler
stocked with ice and root beer
while the drone of the neighbor’s lawnmower
rises and falls with smoky trails of citronella on second thought
cancel the American flags
but if it’s fall let there be acorns
and oak leaves crunching beneath
suede shoes fat squirrels
zipping through rows
of whispers and folding chairs
hot cider cinnamon sticks
branches rubbing and in the distance
the high school football game announcer
raising his voice a bass drum
and if it’s winter
just play for them the sound the snowflakes
used to make
as they turned to gold
before our eyes flying
under the faithful street light
all those precious nights
back home.
