Ruth—look, how our garden has grown.

Basil bushels in our backyard,

stems entwined from weeks of nurture, rest.

Leaves yawn, 

roots stretch

the sleep from their limbs.


Our porch, a museum of color. 

Amber petals backbend, heaven-facing,

crimson glints 

under morning rays,

emerald leaves embrace 

cardinal sprouts—

a celebration 


we observe from our corridor.


We extol behind covering.

This feast of weeks—these four walls, our Earth.


The sweetness of health

is in orange slices, 

the richness of life 

in cheese and cherry wine. 

Masks muffle our songs, Ruth, 

but we savor the honey of

hallelujah between breaths.