From the back porch I look through the rain
at the trees on the southern hill, dear friends
of mine for over 30 years. I tell them the
news of the day. I wonder if our goings-on
shock them, or if they just roll their tree eyes,
or if they even care at all. But I tell them anyway.
The Important Ones finally came to the town,
some rousing hope; some rousing ire.
For some hours at least, hope won, the glad
of it rising in great cheers to the sky.
Freezing rain pelted the people, but they didn’t care.
Thinking about the rain was for another day.
Tomorrow the awful questions would return,
the unsolvable problems. But tonight
they would sleep with ribbons of hope floating
through their dreams. Hope. At last. Hope.
I couldn’t tell what the trees thought of my tale.
I noticed that their swelling buds softened
their silhouettes against the gray afternoon’s sky.
Spring is coming, I whispered to myself.
Regardless.