Through the garden window’s breath, and my palms rest on the sill, each breeze whispers laughter,
takes off like a flurry of wings. Inside the pandemic poem of blooms, yellow creates joy captured, a reminder of the season’s pulse.

Underneath breath’s lift, inquiry opens petals—a song, revealing the warmth of evening as it stretches, weaving its October night, where shades of twilight filter with softest hands.

You must turn your head to the flowers, to taste their serenity, lay down the ache of life, while witnessing moments reborn; everything running riot—the wild, the close, the belied, the round.

• Muriel Rukeyser