Absence (Day 1228)

Once, bees would have hummed—

sipping from each pale clover bud 

—where now, there are none.

Each hollow honeysuckle bows,

to grieve its absent lover.

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Thoughts on a new development (Day 1227)

Hidden behind this curtain

of green and green

a shameful gash gleams red

where spring flowers grew

where acres of ancient woods

sheltered hidden lives

are freshly-mangled mounds

of trunks and tangled roots

the cloak of greed drapes 

heavy on these hills   savaged

by decree  by men

whose empty buildings echo 

like vacant hearts

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Forgettable (Day 1126)

Your name is forgettable

& soon forgotten

being less important

than the way you make her feel

spinning beneath that night 

sky filled with stars

you cannot see

yet believe in   all the same

this is not to say you are

honest   or even kind

because your lies   insignificant 

as you are   sting like wasps

but you are young   & so she is  

& what you lose could be 

everything   or maybe 

it really is nothing at  all

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Here (Day 1225)

here   by the rambling lake 

where the blue sky lives   

where unexpected breezes 

shake the folds out 

of waist-high grasses 

where box fans hum   

blowing out during the heat 

of the day   and   

every spring   leaves appear 

on the old fallen elm 

down the drive

where we wait for summer 

to gather force   so we can dive   

deep into the liquid heavens

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Glass rooms (Day 1224)

below the black somehow of February 

bodies balanced on dawn’s flawed surface 

you delighted in my dreams   stealing 

through miles of glass rooms   one by one 

unfolding   delicately seeking   unprepared

to endure winter’s final stand alone

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Which (Day 1223)

I am a weed.   I am an orchid. 

I am a minnow.   I am a shark.   

I am a biplane.    I am the Concorde.   

I am junk mail.   I am a poem.

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

This sentence (Day 1222)

This sentence might be apple blossoms.

Apple blossoms are wild rainbow trouts.

Wild rainbow trouts are rusted metal chains.

Rusted metal chains are cozy fireside chats.

Cozy fireside chats are unpolished roze quartz.

Unpolished rose quartz is a throw-away poem. 

A throw-away poem might end with this sentence. 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Haiku for Day 1221

A dozen hours bloom 

bending toward evening 

on graceful curved stems 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

They could not look (Day 1220; Pandemic series #9)

those most fearful

(claiming no fear)

cried: Liberty! Freedom!

(while violating ours)

like children   they could not 

look for monsters

in their closets

under their beds

or in the very air they breathed

like warriors   they could have  

accepted the truth

but instead   they chose the familiar 

comfort of fairy tales

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

At the end (Day 1219)

The furies (Day 1218)

The furies flare, crowing and crying 

again. Perhaps, enough 

has been said about agreement.

Temperatures are rising, 

but we are cool as autumn, watching 

a storm heave itself against the rocks.

Eyes flashing in the darkness,

they circle and stalk, 

curling like sighs amongst the cedars.

But they cannot harm us, barricaded 

as we are by contentment — 

vaccinated by an absence of desire.

© 2020 by Hannah Six

Indifferent (Day 1217)

unquiet  winds stir 

even the lowest branches

leaves beating 

like wings

another day melts into this 

indiferent gray twilight

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Twin (Day 1216)

walking the tracks 

hot dust between her toes

those golden days

bitter as the earth 

the men mined to gild 

another’s house 

up on the hill   white 

trimmed in red 

lounging on the porch 

buttressed by comfortable 

old aunts and a twin

oh, a twin!   gazing into 

her own hazel eyes

her own faded cotton dress  

dancing into the distance

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

A day, maybe two (Day 1215)

terrible men stood over us

looking at the pages   pecking out 

one letter after another

you could have gone through alone

but they refused our altered papers 

we were neither afraid 

nor fraught with innocence 

and its own perfection

for a day   maybe two   

they turned the leaves this way and that

without resolution 

not long after   we changed   distilled 

into an elixir of June   and the end 

was exquisite 

if I knew how I would revise 

those winter hours    leaving just a sliver 

of spring somewhere in between 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Entr’acte (Day 1214)

Frying pan sizzling, radio news droning, heart pounding, she set her girl on the floor 

and fainted dead away.

He always chose the houses — stark, brand new — then drove off in their only car 

for days or weeks at a time. 

When she learned the truth, her fury stunned him.

The manager insisted all his bank tellers wear high heels, and never allowed them 

to sit while they worked.

This time, she wanted a man who loved her, though she was still young enough 

not to understand the implications.

In the darkened living room, she waited for her wayward daughter to come home.

When everyone finally left, the house grew quiet, but not in the ways she had expected.

© 2020 by Hannah Six

Haiku for Day 1213

four o’clock persists

placid shadows grow restive

expecting fireflies

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Not a time (Day 1212)

Not a time for sun

and yet it shines

not a time for music

but your song 

is playing again

not a time to leave

but you’ll go far

not a time for dreams

but there you are

© 2020 by Hannah Six

Mid-season (Day 1211)

Flat brown fields, dancing 

with dust, guard their promise 

of life in wind-crusted furrows.

Near the tree line, a brown cat

strolls casually toward her secret 

afternoon sleeping lair.

All the while, subtle vultures circle 

overhead, waiting patiently 

for their opportunity to arise.

© 2020 by Hannah Six

What it means (Day 1210)

people are talking   wondering 

what it means to be so alone  

not one of the heady stars

not a single blade of yellowing grass 

not even the air you breathe  

heeds your presence

once  (remember?) we spun out 

of the shade and lay   rotting

in the sun   drawing only the bees 

and hornets (let them be)

who wait   patiently   in this place

this wide land so poised 

to plummet into night   the red sky 

hemmed with defecting geese

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Uneasy (Day 1209)

A breathless sort of day

restless clouds racing eastward

toward greening hills

shrill birds unsettled by the light

warning of nonexistent intruders

uneasy day   this handful 

of empty hours   peopled 

with the missing and the lost

each passing moment  

an unanswerable question 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

One stitch (Day 1208; Pandemic series #8)

how some of us rushed 

out right away

to make them by hand

eager to spend

fingers fumbling

all the money we’d saved 

with unfamiliar needles

when we had stayed at home

and knotted thread

because it had not touched us

one stitch at a time

we assumed it never would

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Everything (Day 1207; Pandemic series #7)

Everything

in a day   it seemed   

had ended   stopped

making sense

mattering

leaving us with more

time to wonder   

& so we did: what we would 

have changed 

if we had known   then

what was left    

except    after all   

everything

(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Those days (Day 1206)

Outside the station

She waves at the engineers

Grandma’s hand in hers

Those days, the world was shiny  

That was when the trains still ran 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

In anonymity (Day 1205)

The sun shone    and did not

outside the windows   rain 

distorted trees beckoned 

to the wind    words were said 

and remained   translucent

unheard   behind our armour

we were   more than 

ever   fragile   in anonymity  

we became   singular   our gaze 

so tender   we did not 

recognize our own secrets   

prowling   patiently   

the wilderness in our hearts

(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Flying downhill (Day 1204)

The morning was so cold

we feared it 

would crack our windshield

but no   laughter 

was music was laughter

flying downhill   so young

could it have been 

that morning 

when we sang Your love 

is like a tidal wave...

how could we have grasped 

such oceans of devastation 

the tsunami would wreak

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Too soon (Day 1203)

A lessening of sorts

a letting go   the way 

a tulip’s petals

fall away  

too soon  too soon  

but knowing 

summer’s fruits will be 

as sweet   

goodbye becomes 

only a place to meet    

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Spring (Day 1202; Pandemic series #6)

then spring arrived

but winter stayed

through May

forced to retrieve 

the wool

we’d packed away

we bundled up

in coats and hats

most days

hoping for

blue skies to 

replace the gray

and for a 

magic cure 

— that old cliche 

—  so we could

leave our homes

to work and play

 

with the ease  

we’d failed to 

cherish yesterday

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Together, again (Day 1201)

walking on the hard wet sand

pelicans diving   testing 

roughened waves   they tasted 

tears on the wind    and still

they walked   neither touching

nor avoiding   together 

again   they forgave themselves 

for loving  for yearning 

as morning glories for the sun

and the breathless blueness

of the sea surged inexorably 

between never and someday

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Conspiracy theories (Day 1200; Pandemic series #5)

Conspiracy theories abounded, of course.

In public buildings and on streets,

fear, anger, and desperation demanded 

what most of us did not. Some, 

lawless or careless, heedless of safety, 

menaced or (worse) endangered 

without the courtesy of a threat.

The gentler forms of violence prevailed,

though: shoppers who brushed against us 

in the aisles, beach-partiers (heads buried 

firmly in the sand), and unprotected 

customers who leaned in close to walk-up 

windows to order take-out meals. 

All these things (and more) left us bemused,

in the midst of months like these, 

wondering: What were they hiding behind 

those masks they would not wear?

© 2020 by Hannah Six

Just not here (Day 1199)

They’re just not here.

They can’t be found

under the bed 

or out on the ground.

They’ve disappeared

without a trace,

leaving me 

in an awkward place.

Where they might be

is hard to gauge,

but one thing is certain:

They’re not on my page.

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Into submission (Day 1198)

Clouds move in, 

bringing a chill to the afternoon. 

In the kitchen, the dishwasher 

surges rhythmically.

And, brow furrowed, I am trying 

to coax words into submission, 

by pretending 

they have already been written .

The dog is waiting at the door, 

urging me to follow.

Upstairs, neighbors argue 

and drag furniture across their floor.

And, breathing shallowly, I am trying 

to coerce words into submission,

by threatening their very existence

on the page.

A friend calls, but I cannot answer.

Outside, a man mows the deep grass, 

mounds of fragrant cuttings in his wake.

And, fists clenched, I am trying 

to beat words into submission, 

by flattening them 

with a large wooden mallet.

The sun moves toward the valley’s 

western rim. 

Somewhere, an owl calls, a cardinal, 

a wren. 

Despairing of ever wrangling those 

iron-willed words into submission, 

I walk away. 

And so they fall neatly into place.

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six