August 16.20: Coping

Discouragement abounds,

angst, depression, fears;

my pate completely addled,

my brains ooze out my ears.

I feel as though I’m squeezed

by vise of pointless tripe;

innuendo and conspiracy

spring up in endless hype.

And isolation never helped

the cause of sanity;

it gives the upper hand

to crazed inanity.

I look for logic, reason,

a sense of what should be;

I find it in the bakery

in sweet geometry.

 

 

I do not make light, dear reader, of those who have little food. Or none at all. I know how fortunate I am to think about desserts.

 

Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg

and to the artist-bakers at la Madeleine.

August 12.20: Coping

Morning came

too quietly,

neither chirp nor trill,

but only cicada’s

serrated drone.

A very timid cricket

tuned his small pipe.

There I stood,

knee-deep in July,

prickly and unsure,

so restless was the quiet.

Now the dark of August nights

and no firefly winks.

The Green Heron blats

like fallow French horn

once or twice a day,

and maple leaves,

scorched,

bleed at their edges.

Do I imagine

the urgency?

Time is out of sorts,

as am I.