Love in the Time of Corona

(Beneath the Gentle Trees)

by Katherine West

Some are too tired to go on

they sit down by the side of the road

using their bundles as cushions—

some sit alone

watching the dusty

scrub oaks

nod with the south wind

watching them as if all the answers

were contained

in their slow

noble

movement

their relationship

with what breaks them

or brings them the food

of rain

and runoff—

some sit together

watching each other

the same way the solitary

watch the trees

they observe the way the hair

of babies

and ancients

grows in the same

fluffy

tufts

like milkweed pods

split

opening

about to let go

or

the way old hands

their swollen fingers and thumbs

unable to grasp

any longer

are finally

at rest

still as lizards

in the sun

small batteries

being charged

filled up utterly

with what they might call God

or

the way eyes

glint

at the curve

of the orb

the way the curve

of the river glints

in late afternoon

turns white

as the eye

after the all day blue

of the sky—

some keep going

not even turning their heads

as they leave their brothers and sisters

behind

they are only feet

dry

cracked

bleeding

they see nothing but the road

as it disappears

into the horizon

while the ones left behind

curl up together

a family

of fallen leaves

beneath the gentle trees


* * * * *

Katherine West lives in Southwest New Mexico, near the Gila Wilderness, where she writes poetry about the soul-importance of wilderness and performs it with her musician husband, Yaakov. She has written three collections of poetry: The Bone Train, Scimitar Dreams, and Riddle, as well as one novel, Lion Tamer. Her poetry has appeared in journals such as Lalitamba, Bombay Gin, and New Verse News, which recently nominated her poem, And Then the Sky for a Pushcart Prize.