Molly Fisk: Peace

One of those days when the grain of a wooden table 

seems more certain, as if ordained, when gravity feels 

like praise: the unexpected May rain falling straight 

but gently, not breaking poppy petals from their tall 

stems, not endangering hummingbird eggs in their nest 

among the camellias. A day when the human world 

recedes, taking its murders and meanness, its righteous 

disdain out of sight, the way the last glimpse of an island 

will disappear beyond the earth’s implacable curve, 

so all around your boat is only ocean, swirling 

and lapping, folding blue into gray into green.

Copyright 2019 Molly Fisk