Good Friday

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.

Bill Keller

Bill Keller is a poet, novelist, and photographer