Sitting on a park bench
my feet hover

over the lush green grass
above the earth

and sometimes
above the fray

a small Christmas tree
with tinsel and ornaments
dangling from its branches

grows out of our living room
floor

what was once dead
now lives again

outside the morning fog
burned off

the sky is now
a baby blue

you may be down
but you are never out

we will survive
by reading and following
the directions

keeping our brushes
clean

and never
letting the paint dry

Whit Howland © 2019