There is the deep breath, diving

to the center of the flower

sliding down the pollen laden

tube and glimpsing the sky

disappearing overhead

 

There is the ache of loss for

something you didn’t know

had perished, but an absence

tells you it’s gone and you

begin to search like an ant

 

who’s lost sight of the line marching

into the woods. It eclipses everything

unless you take your fist and shove

it down (although it’s like punching

a balloon, the ever springing back

 

of it defying gravity and fist) but you

punch away, grab stamens and pull

yourself out of the deceptive nectar

listen for the scratch of leaf to find

the back of the ant line and resume

 

your place in the salvific routine of

how you arm yourself to fight day after

day to defeat this depression, pry open

your heart and refuse to darken, cook,

clean, write, sew, and do it all again, again.