Some days are bleak and gray.
This one falls on the month’s last day,
as if it is holding a funeral for the weeks
it held, when invisible poisons settled
on the towns and rivers, the creeks and fields.
I gaze at the trees atop the south hill
and with them I mourn all that was lost.
Tomorrow the sun will rise, and our spirits
with it. And we will go on, because
that’s what we do. And spring will come,
as if nothing had happened at all.