For the Young Who Are Afraid
This rain pounds the arch hall with a glass roof,
vexations of puddles over and above the axles,
no time to witness how slowly the tulip emerges
in curled lips like cups. Chills of wet hair.
The rain gauge was full a week ago
and now is extraneous to any thought
of how today differs from a week ago.
The dam was ready to break then.
Today is not helpful.
Whether fake news or the fine print
of ingredients in organic jelly beans,
what you choose to believe, what rudeness
you expel, the stiff broom could not
keep rainwater out of the garage,
affecting the stored bird seed,
not for failure of trying.
It may not always be thus.
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet stuck right in a snowy January as deeply worried about politics as the rest of the nation.