Three years ago at this time
we could not see what
was coming at us, could not
imagine the unseen that
would lock us inside, afraid
of the very breath of others.

We learned too well about
isolation, about grief and pain,
gripping hope to our chests
like a soft pillow, not entirely
able to absorb its comfort.

Two years ago at this time
a young muralist wielded her
imagination and brushes to
flower my century-old garage
with poetry and poppies.

We were not entirely out of
the woods, but hope slowly made
itself known, unfurling like
the iris bulbs I’d forgotten
lying in the back yard bed.

Last year at this time
we felt hope rising along
with the iris’ purple tongue,
with new buds on the Japanese
maple and ginkgo in the front yard,

and the muralist returned to
paint giant wings on the back
of the garage, flowering, thriving.

And this year, drenched,
finding relief in the sunny
moments between storms, we
pay attention to the tiny pink
flowers springing from wispy
branches, as living things seasonally
do, filling us with breath, light
strength of spirit to take a small
step forward, and another—
onward.