Love in the Time of Corona

Wind rakes its nails across morning

but the sky’s incandescent, as if the day

has been rinsed in the light of El Greco.

It’s too cold to be sitting outside

but we’re here anyways, drinking coffee

and wearing wool coats over pajamas.

If the shadows could stand up

they would be taller than the trees.

Instead they sleep, branches

making dark roads across the lawn.

Or maybe I should say it looks like

someone’s been painting ideograms

on yellowed paper. A tree of images

spreads across my inner sky.

Which branch is strong enough

to hold your imagination?