In Early March

There are seven white daffodils below my kitchen window,

a squirrel in the crook of the dogwood tree,

the branches of the cypress wave like floaty fans,

and there’s a war on TV.

 

 

Children in bright coats hold their parents’ hands,

cross a broken bridge to a crowd and a train.

They carry dogs and water and plastic shopping bags.

Not so much –

everything.