Jera

Today the sun came up too early; 

I’m out of cereal, 

and cream for my tea. 

My hair is a mess, and 

I can’t find a thing in my closet 

that doesn’t make me look 

frumpy and fat.  

Traffic is terrible, 

and in the endless stop-and-go, 

I mutter and curse 

about the time I’m losing. 

I should stop myself 

with a reminder that  

all my frustrations are 

temporary,  

but today’s not the day for that. 

I skim unnoticing  

by the new green  

that decorates the trees,  

the magenta of redbuds 

blooming with abandon,  

and pink and white dogwoods 

in their annual renewal. 

There is no beauty. 

Not today. 

Last night I heard there had been a fire 

on the street where we used to live: 

someone died; a man was rescued. 

The dog and cat, too. 

It was my friend Jera who died, 

and I woke up to that 

this ugly spring morning,
filled with frustration, and anger, and tears. 

I woke up,

but Jera sleeps.