top of page

Observations from a crisp September morning, the day after a giant was called home

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.

Related Posts

See All

Nosebleeds in the dark

"You said that you were bleeding. the lights were out and i thought it was a joke because you said it like you say everything else."


bottom of page