Most Days

With smudged thumbs

I travel hell,

Reuter’s, the New

York Times,

through syllables

of flood and fire,

abuse and plague,

abduction, war

death by overdose,

death by Opioid,

by acts of God.

I grieve my dead,

unheralded,

praise what remains,

this yellow grass,

these Eastern pines,

my winter squash,

the Housatonic

tumbling on rock,

a grocer’s kindness,

the yellow grass.