by Bill Keller
I don’t see a soul
on this Good Friday run,
though the trail’s hospitable,
trees in bud and birds
softly twittering.
Spring feels different
with hate our favorite drug.
We’re disassembled,
deadly to those we love,
to every living thing.
*
Still, from the dike I see
that winter rains have filled
the reservoir again
to boats left stranded
by their fishermen.
A robin, no thought
of being trite, sings
the old song, “Cheerily,
cheer up, cheer up,” and
despite it all, I do.
Our way is by instinct, too.
