While taking a walk this morning, I saw a field of flowers in a small plot of land adjacent to the Syracuse Center of Excellence. Their appearance inspired a poem. And it’s yet another example of why I always carry a pocket notebook with me and a few ballpoint pens buried in my coat pockets. Fortunately, today there was enough ink in the old pen to write these words.

Yellow flowers.

Seasons

 
Hearing the sound
of my footsteps
on the sidewalk
of a deserted street
in Syracuse.

No one else around
except two teenagers
kicking a yellow
soccer ball
in a parking lot.
But I won’t report them
for not wearing masks
and failing to maintain
a six-foot distance.

Sunshine, cool air,
puffy white clouds,
budding trees and
bulbous flowers blooming
in canary yellow color.

There’s no denying
spring has arrived—
even here in
upstate New York.
But this year,
with coronavirus,
the chill of winter remains,
and April hasn’t
chased away
the shut-in feeling
of mid-February.

And I wonder,
will we be able
to celebrate spring
when summer gets here?
Or will coronavirus
postpone our fun
until autumn?

Yellow flowers, close-up.