It is hot, hotter than it was ever meant to be.
The air chewable, our thoughts limp as the beanstalks in the garden.
Night a stultifying soup – no gentle lap of the sea's breath on the nape of my neck.
They say not to dwell in this mourning place, in this disbelieving grief.
Not to stay here clenched in a fist of tepid air, or we will never get out.
We must hope, or become part of the sad, feverish cloud stuck
in the confused jet stream.
So, this: Plucking pungent fresh dill under a bruised twilight
in quiet only crickets know how to sing. How young and gentle
the feathery fronds, how bright on our tongues,
with the garden peas and the cool cream – so that everything,
for the taste of a moment, feels wide-eyed and wondering again.
Erin Covey-Smith holds an MFA in printmaking from Concordia University and has been pursuing a visual and written artistic practice throughout her career. She found her way to the poetry world via her letterpress and book arts experience. Her work may be found in multiple anthologies, print, and online journals. Her debut book of poetry, Not-Yet Elegies, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020. Covey-Smith lives in Freeport, Maine.