Life is good with us, as yet.
We eat; when it rains, we stay dry;
the bills are paid with minimal distress.
Last evening, walking in the park
at sunset, the golden light suffusing the green,
we paused and talked with two neighbors
—at a respectable distance, of course.
Walking on, I bent to smell one of the last roses,
I can still smell—a good sign.
And yet I wake each day
to a sad morning mist:
the impalpable awareness of pervasive misery.
As the day proceeds, this mist dissipates
somewhat. It is good,
even at a distance,
to talk with neighbors.
About the Poet
Christopher Brooks has been a professional violinist his entire life, grew up in Brooklyn; lived in Spain and the Netherlands, currently lives (probably for the rest of his life) in Lancaster, PA. His father was a writer and historian; He grew up in a house filled with books. Brooks has been published in Vita Brevis, Literary Yard, Fire Agate Press, Scarlet Leaf Review. His book, Bemused: poems written after dark is available.