If you’d like to listen to me reading the following poem, click here.
On Learning That the Words “Crisis” and “Sift” are Related
I picture my mother’s hands and the silver, mesh sieve.
She was not a meticulous cook, but occasionally
she took the time to sift flour.
Big lumps remained, could not pass through.
That’s the point, she told me.
Only that which is willing to be broken down
Heartbreak, infection, isolation: they sift us.
On a walk, I see a neighbor
Hungry to hear each other speak, we discuss books
at a six-foot distance.
In the afternoons, I drive out to see birch trees,
fields in thaw, and ice breaking up in the harbor.
The gulls have returned.
Our children call.
While my husband reads the recipe to me, I mix scones.
We laugh when the blueberries spill.
I memorize Psalms. He plays guitar. I read.
What does not matter does not make it through.