Today's poem is by CJ Giroux

Quarantined—Day 15: Shelter in Place
       

The first real spring
storms, the forecaster promises,
will pass north, but rising wind
and night skies in the early afternoon
say otherwise, so too our aging
tuxedo cat: growling, bristling,
she has forgotten
that rolling thunder is like the grumbled grievances
of the long-married
muttering to themselves.
The bird that lives on our porch
also sounds her warning;
usually silent, she offers a panicked trill,
a trio of notes,
ending with a whistled wheat.

Hidden in the wreath of pinecones
hanging on our storm door,
she sinks into greying bits of lavender,
anise hyssop, thatch, salvia.
My lack of labor last fall has found purpose.
My wife has checked the reference books—
Carpodacus mexicanus, gestation is 14 days—
but I just say mama bird, count eggs
(from three to five, more white
than blue, in a span of 36 hours).
Migration is not an option,
so I text photos to my mother
nesting in place two hours away.

I must refrain from opening up
the interior door, steel painted white,
to the warming April air.
I must stop looking through the window insert
shaped like a wagon wheel—
even reflections, glances frighten.
I must forget about the mess
streaking down the glass,
and learn instead a new vocabulary:
finch, not bird,
Russian sage, not waste,
hope, not fear;
though I am not alone,
I must shelter in shadow.

Copyright © 2024 CJ Giroux All rights reserved
from Sheltered in Place
Publisher
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission