 |
| Image / Ba Tik |
Kindnesses
You hand me the cup of coffee,
fresh brewed, as I walk into the kitchen
just awake in my stockinged feet.
Each night when I brush my teeth
my toothbrush has been charged
because you switch out the plugs each day.
When you go to the store
how often do you come home
with something just for me—
this week, It’s-It Mini Ice Cream Sandwiches.
The tile patio table I write on
passed along to us by an acquaintance
because she knew we liked it.
The hickory rake for the rock garden,
the sloped writing desk in the back bedroom,
both made by our friend, just for me, just for us.
I take the ingredients out—gnocchi, spinach,
grated parmesan and mozzarella cheese—
and make dinner. Yesterday,
the day after the election and the country fell,
I sent texts—I love you—to my brother, my mom.
I laughed with a friend last night on Facetime.
Put the trash bags in the can unasked.
Gathered the redwood needles
swept from the tree in yesterday’s wind.
The sun rises each morning,
some days breaking through the clouds,
some days not. But it’s there,
even during the most devastating storms
the sun is there, above the clouds, it rises and falls.
Just this morning I watched a monarch butterfly
drink from a Cosmos daisy.
LeeAnn Pickrell’s debut collection is Gathering the Pieces of Days from Unsolicited Press. Her chapbook Punctuated was published in 2024 by Bottlecap Press, and her book Tsunami is forthcoming in 2026, also from Unsolicited Press. She lives in Richmond, California. See more at www.leeannpickrell.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please be supportive and kind in your comments.