Grateful, aren’t you, for waking up this
Morning, next to the Chinese Embassy.
On the island of St. Lucia.
And not seeing anyone wearing
A mask, taking extreme precautions.
Although it appears the palms are
Coughing into their sleeves.
The bougainvillea blossoming
indoors. Who knows what Derek
Walcott, the island’s, the world’s poet
Would advise from his grave.
Knowing what he knew
About the wind and the knives
Of the palm leaves.
What warning the beeping
insects give, all day and night.
As if they realize
What the waves bring in. A barge
Of families, coughing and sneezing?
A one day poet laureate?
A chicken the sea forgot
To quarantine, to hold at bay?
Maybe I’ll have the courage
To walk next door and talk
My way through security
And meet the Ambassador,
Han Shan, distant relative
Of the ancient hermit poet.
Who headed for the mountain.
To live for the rest of his life.
To send us his poems,
His masks. The silk worms spun.
He never wore inside or once
A year when when he went out
For a walk. For fresh air.
To clear his mind.
________
Gary Margolis is Emeritus Executive Director of College Mental Health Services at Middlebury College. His third book, “Fire in the Orchard” was nominated for the 2002 Pulitzer Prize Poetry. His latest book “Time Inside” is recently published.
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