Measuring the Quarantine by Sundays. A poem by will schmit

My bride paints pistachio shells
at the bequest of rosehips
scattered across the table.

Our indoor lemon tree
bursts into blossom,
flagrant fragrance causing a dance.

Even in isolation the secret place expends
breathing room to an outside world.
Home is the art of blank hands and mirrors.

Brush strokes leak red on the page
sentient pathway to the crossroads
of giving received.

The radio argues in favor of silence.
An enhancement of a second voice
to the same sound mind.

We adjust the monkish lighting
like brooding birds awaiting
the all clear from a glass cage.

New rain, a surprising sun, and wind
come at the house from the blue coast,
bereft, for the moment, of fog.

We exercise judgement in sweaters,
drink the warm lemon water
make church out of the moving parts.


Will Schmit is a Midwestern poet transplanted to Northern California. He has been reading, and writing poetry, in between bouts of learning to play the saxophone, for nearly forty years. His latest work Head Lines Poems & Provocations is available on Amazon

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