It is quiet here, in my mother’s front yard. 
Eyes closed, raised toward the sun,
I see every plant in its place.
Many plants bedded by my hand during high school,
whose trunks, steams and branches 
are now more twisted then my own.

Inside the house, my mother unpacks groceries.
In the grocery stores, people moved slowly
each attempting to do math, 
many failing to calculate 
the true length that is six feet.

Within each grocery store I visit, 
people are simultaneously in-motion and at-standstill,
the way I have witness people move
in the death wings of hospitals and homes for the age-ed.
The only thing missing - the scent of death foretold.

One benefit to quarantine are the roads.
Uncluttered freeways, they way they were
when I turned my mothers front yard
into a blooming garden
scented with solace.

I open my eyes, resting them 
on five bright-red hummingbird feeders.
Each hangs from of a trembling branch
extending from the cadaverous snowball bush. 

What will hummingbirds do 
when my mother ceases to move?
Will they hover before of her picture window 
seeking proof of her?
Will they chirp, attempting to usher her forth?
Will they seek me out to ask why
their feeders are empty?

Its to early to imagine the silence of her absences.
To see longing through the eyes 
of lonesome humming birds.

© 2020 By Duane Kirby Jensen


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