In late April, the people
are still faithful
as priests who don't dare leave
the dark railed alters
of their houses and apartments.
They pray it will be alright,
and mostly, it is: holing up there,
still feeding and growing,
and learning all they need to know
without much trouble
mostly from the surfeit
of screens—though now and again,
more bitter-sweetly, from out
past the veil of an ordinary
rectangular window,
where they can see the sweetness
of summer beginning to be remembered
by the greening lawns
and the lilac bushes growing bolder
after last night's storm.
The people aren't sure
of much anymore, but
all can understand—that life
may be maintained with
security, comfort, and pleasure—
but it is only made outdoors
by that sweetness and boldness
which risks all to exist
and is nourished with brightness,
clarity, and warmth.
