NANCY HUGGETT

To Love What Is

Sleet falling outside my window,
pond still frozen
though my heart aches for thaw.
Bud-scaled tips of trees,
muck and mud
of greening yet to be.
Winter dust that dances
in the morning light, falls
on books and brushes,
rises on our arising.
The call for help,
the interruption and work of it,
pulled away from what I long to do
into what already is.
The anxious cry,
the pothole at the corner,
the leaking tap,
the red-winged blackbird
trilling in the birch.
Fog dispersing over the canal,
virus blooming yet again.
Me with so much yearning
for you, delayed, for spring, delayed,
for all the futures and the pasts
gone sideways. And yet.
We’re called to this:
To love what is.
And so.

I kiss your tousled head,
stroke your flannel robe,
rub your stubbled cheek,
pour you coffee and nudge us
into the day.

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