A cross-country renga
since sickness came here
the crows have stopped commuting
what is it they know?
running on mud trails
all I pick up of bird song
is under cover
we hold each other
at conscientious distance
neighbors met by chance
last packet of yeast—
chunks torn from swaddled challah
golden with egg wash
nights in separate beds
until dawn remembers us
mother, father, child
last summer’s curls
falling from old dull scissors
wing over one ear
I breathe out long clouds
last morning of stubborn March
mountains still hidden
under the windows
husks of the day’s ladybugs—
I’ve done the taxes
tawny brown lentils
the baby gleans one by one
as she chimes her spoon
lake choppy with the
screech of seagulls, swings and slides
masked with yellow tape
rose moon haloed blue
for once the night’s not too cold
still—stay near me, love
waiting up all night—
the sewing machine unmasked
against the white pane
II.
after the hailstorm
forsythias glow golder
sky bruised and gleaming
downy woodpecker
rapping on the gutter pipe
we are starved for news
invisible rain
gauze grey only broken by
indigo lilacs
how slow my son walks
inspecting each new flower
owl swooping over
between milk and sleep
she holds my face then touches
her forehead to mine
a whiteout of news
thumb swiping the screen anxious
for your next haiku
no one but the rain
was looking when the foxgloves
finally took over
stimulus package
feeding the sourdough starter
the last of the flour
filled by unknown lungs
the spheres sail down the alley
past my window, up
hardening the starts
Jack-in-the-pulpit too near
the basketball hoop
three masked women pass
Salome and two Marys
roll away the stone
why such sadness now?
all the trees are leafing out
on the road to town
III.
the full moon is back
and the motorcycles too
graze Lake City Way
holding the branch still
dusky two-toned bird—what kind
other than our kind?
thinking of you gone
my own pulse hurries fearful
tumbling river life
why is it only
mosquitoes and deer ticks love
the backs of my knees
day gives up its heat
open the kitchen windows
to coolness and flies
Memorial Day
one hundred thousand crossing
the country flags at
long seam between clouds
Saturday morning thunder
waits to catch fire
budding new worlds
ants patrolling the edges
cinched in riot gear
darkness all day long
where were you when the storm came?
no one is sleeping
pond swell of peepers
raindrops trampolining on
the road’s cold shoulders
birdsong and chainsaw
children calling one last game
just a few miles away
hummingbird strafing
the blind honeysuckle vine
Amidst the many losses of the pandemic, including the loss of human contact, we took refuge in creating a renga together, linking our homes of Seattle and rural Vermont. We chose to work in set syllables—19 for each link, made of a haiku and a two-syllable bob—as a nod to Covid-19. Here we present three sections of 12 links each, originally delivered by text message, carrying us from late March to early June 2020.
