let hope blaze
I don’t want to talk about the election and definitely didn’t plan to write a poem about it. But then I went for a walk with Cozbi on Friday and she named the condition of the golden maple trees: blight. Turns out these “tar spots” are the result of a fungus that doesn’t kill the tree. The next day I heard hollering in the street and that’s how I found out that Biden had won. I walked to the farmer’s market and ecstatic folks were out in their cars, honking as they drove through Evanston in impromptu caravans. I know I can be Debbie Downer sometimes and this moment definitely reminds me of the day after President Obama won in 2008. I asked my students, “We now have a Black president. What else about the US has changed?” Saturday felt familiar…so much joy and relief, never mind the 70 million voters who tried to re-elect Trump. But I’m not here to say, “I told you so.” Instead I’m trying to allow myself (and others) these fleeting moments of joy.
Let Hope Blaze
let hope blaze
like the brassiest leaves
fanned gold and resplendent
against the blue sky
let my eye linger
only on beauty
and not on the blight
that mars each
saffron star
today
I can ignore
the lessons life’s
taught me
for now
I can choose
not to dwell
on the rot
in silence
I will honor
the glory of autumn
knowing that sometimes
the axe is the cure
© Zetta Elliott
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