Three Poems

By Ray Greenblatt

AUGUST AIR

Ceiling fans superfluous,
strong gusts rush in
fresh from the sea storm—
air not laced with Covid.
I now measure time
by the window box:
yellow zinnia
all the people sickened,
the reddest geranium
ever-growing dead,
purple petunia
the in-between world
where we hover.

ON THE PHONE

We talk on the phone.

Email is only the written word.

We want to hear our friend’s
intonation, emphases, stutterings,
uncertainties, passion . . .

We discuss going crazy in
our regal isolation,
how we fill the time grown ageless,
if any friends have become ill . . .

When will we actually touch!

Yet, after a while
we realize that
a voice on the phone
words in a email
even Zoom
could all arrive after death.

AUGUST GREEN

August settles in-
to its lush greenness,
catbird mews gently
out of a thicket,
caterpillar nests
hang like clouded dreams.

A strange stillness hovers
over everything,
a silent joy that
the air is cleaner
the waters purer,
but people hide inside.

An invisible monster
roams the land and only when
it touches the electric
fence of contamination
do we see its outlines
what it really is.

Do not look into the mirror for
you might not see your image there.

Ray Greenblatt is an editor on the Schuylkill Valley Journal. His latest book of poetry is UNTIL THE FIRST LIGHT (Parnilas Media, 2020).His book reviews have been published by the Dylan Thomas Society and the Graham Greene Society.

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