It’s been a while. I’m sure we’re all finding it hard to keep up with the whirlwind of outrages from the unspeakable administration. In the latter part of April Sylvia and I drove to the Bay Area and visited a few friends. We also visited the grave of my dear friend Barbara Joans, whom I wrote about last year. I’d planned to chew her out for abandoning me after over 50 years of friendship. Instead I started to say kaddish, and then broke down in tears.

Other news: the new neighborhood support group I started has met four times, and we continue to attract members. Wearing a “Free Luigi!!” button while doing my exercises in a nearby park starts conversations, and these have enticed people to join us as well as leading to some new friendships. We’re planning a picnic at the end of the month. And I’m looking forward to the big “No Kings!” demonstration scheduled for June 14.

There are, of course, more important matters than politics. We’re having our usual long, lush Oregon spring–every day something new is in bloom. It started in February with crocuses and now the roses are opening. Also, besides the featherless bipeds, I’ve become pals with a couple of feathered ones. They come into our back yard every morning, looking for treats. I think they’re mates, but it’s hard to tell male from female crows.

And here’s a poem to cheer you up:

A Finger of Grass

A green blade
breaks through the sidewalk,
a weed no longer than my
four-year-old finger;
the only verdant thing
that thrives on our Brooklyn street
a deliberate desert of asphalt
and concrete slabs.

Its singular salute
grabs my attention.
“I will grow strong like you,”
I vow.

Now, decades and a continent away,
I stalk the forest. On gusty days
the trees fling incantations,
sword ferns unravel at my feet.
We’re told they speak
through interwoven roots
and exhalations.
Even the smallest things
find ways to tell their tales.
Honeybees dance;
ants perfume their trails.

I will never understand
the insect arias,
the canticles of plants,
never grow tough
as a spear of city grass.
Still I’m enchanted,
swept into speechless euphoria,
into the exaltations of life.
It is enough.