April 12, 2020
Nothing did, and then something did,
and now it seems that there is nothing that is not
flowering. The laurel along the road, the wild
blueberries, the hushed bells of the bearberry
bush, the cherry trees and their tantrums
of white blossoms as the dead are wheeled beneath them,
covered in white sheets. Easter morning. A plastic egg
on the front porch for our daughter. I toss the candy
when she turns away and fill it with pebbles. It’s the rattle
that pleases her anyway. The way she says Easter
it sounds like eaten.
The madrone trees look like dancers’ arms
reaching from the earth. This is my body, which is for you,
I love you. I miss you. This will end,
I said to my friend,
and almost meant it.
John Okrent’s poems have appeared in FIELD, Poetry Northwest, The Seattle Times, Rattle, Tupelo Quarterly, and elsewhere. This sonnet is part of an extended crown of sonnets, entitled “Corona Sonnets.” He works as a family physician at a community health center in Tacoma, WA, where he lives with his wife and daughter in a fisherman’s cabin built on stilts.