By Kara Dunford
September 19, 2020
The skies were blue that day,
and so we set off, though our hearts
were blue, too.
But soon they appeared: small signs that
send a spirit flying. Hints that a change
soon will come.
Faint only if we chose not to look.
Two women at home with each other on a park bench,
peels of laughter, wisps of silver hair, and
a picnic basket between them.
Faces not protected beneath layers of cotton
counted on a finger or two.
Signs proclaiming a battle for the soul
of the nation planted proudly on front lawns.
Our shared humanity on display like
the autumn bouquets from the farmer’s market.
The morning, ours.
And the nation, too.
November teeming like lifeblood through our veins,
hope swelling like that greatest of symphonies
in our hearts.
Because surely, the apple trees we planted when we thought
the world would end are ready to bear fruit.
About the author:
Kara Dunford (she/her) is a writer and nonprofit communications professional living in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Brave Voices Magazine, Fahmidan Journal, and boats against the current. She serves as a Poetry Editor for Overtly Lit. Find her on Twitter @kara_dunford.