By Caroline Donnola

I haven’t been writing poetry lately.

So I ask myself,
is it the drip-drip-drip
of my patience running out?
The constant barrage of
candidate ads, text messages
and phone calls screaming
“I’m the one”?

Is it that feeling of dread
that I’d rather not share
because to share it
would be to face it?

The seasons are changing now—
the leaves are turning
the election is almost over
the virus rages on.

I search for the little things
that add meaning—
A card arrives in the mail
from a sweet friend who keeps
me in her thoughts.
The young man who runs the flower market
calls out my name as I pass by.
On a blustery autumn day
as the temperature drops

and the winds pick up
a pile of colorful leaves
paints a brilliant picture.

When I stand in line
in the pouring rain
to cast my vote,
I find solace in the friendly banter
between voters who’ve never met before
in a decidedly split district
and remind myself for the millionth time
that we are more than
and different than
what the media says we are,
we are neighbors after all,
and this gives my mood a lift.

And the poetry
starts to come back.