Patricia Spears Jones

March 21, 2021; Patricia Spears Jones

March 21, 2021

You see the moon rise –the sky is pearled blue

And you remember it is Pedro Pietri’s birthday

And J. S. Bach—both played their organs with

Intentional glamour

As if there was no one else who could walk a poem

Or offer up that rumbling sacred welcome—the melodies

Soar and drop, drop and Soar.

Like the moon’s sliced face, the wind has turned

And tuned its brazen soundings,

Then the Mr.Softee Truck tinkles that terrible jingle

Oh Spring chilly tenderness

That march of lions and lambs. A march of missteps

And dreaming. Lenten sacrifices small (no candy, no pastry)

Or large (no false speaking, learning to forgive)

What an aching sorrow hoovers the city—old men

And women shuffle to the corner and back—their spines cascading

As names are flung into Orion’s belt, poets’ names

Robert, Adam, another we have not heard.

For Robert Hershon