the last blue iris

 Every morning since the first of the year, I have tried to chase the dawn--wake up, sit in the dining room and write while the sun comes up over the Cascades, over the apartment complex two doors down, the bare snowball bush. For a little over four months, Monday through Friday (with a few exceptions), I have written in my little composition book--nothing more than descriptions of the morning, the birds, the small noises in the house. Everyone else is asleep. Or rather now, dawn coming earlier and earlier, all the other humans are asleep.  I get up, feed the dog and the cats, give them their various medicines, put laundry in the washer, feed and water the chickens, watch the sun come up and write. When I lived on Grosse Pointe street, my dining room also faced east, over the little reservoir woods. For months at a time, I would wake up, sit with a candle and my journal and write. I started doing this when my anxiety mushroomed, when I felt off center. So, I decided to start a...

Every time the plane banks over West Michigan: yellow sandy soil, grey-green haze of leafless trees, the endless blue of Lake Michigan, I wonder: is this the last time I will come here? J. is getting older, almost 16. Though: a pandemic. Though: the airplane packed for the quick flight between Chicago and Grand Rapids. Though: I wore a Kn95 mask and a cloth mask for 14 hours, listened to women next to me complain about their single-layer surgical masks, how awful they were, how they didn't understand how anyone could wear two  masks at all. Let's throw all the masks in a fire,  the man in the seat next to me said last week,  democrats made this virus . In the woods, wild onions. Beech leaves a dry, pale gold. Downy woodpecker, cardinal, nuthatch. If you stand still enough, you can hear things growing, a soft rustling in the dry oak leaves, one deep green fern emerging from a nurse log.  Boxed wine, bread, cheese, pears. Expensive chocolate.  *** The first time I...