I suppose,
in this climate of fear
and uncertainty,
about money, work
or even a whole country
I’ll sit by my fire
and dribble down
pale few words
once my kid, unlike Mahsa,
is under the sheet’s folds.
In my quiet
yet virtual world
I’ll send her my useless
good will, as useless
as a prayer before lunch.
Why do I tremble
when I look into the far?
Why can’t I just trust
that it will be as it must?
Oh! This sinking hunch.
Let’s put it on the shoulder
of this cold winter, this wind.
Let’s suspend our belief,
calling blind our seer
and beg him a better year.
jam10
