APRIL 3, 2026 POETRY From August to April VERONICA SANITATE Groundcover contributor When I see love, I see a deep purple plum, sweet swollen reward inviting the prick of teeth on its skin: velvet without, honey within. Have your fill. There will be juice! But life wanes, transmutes into a slow jog in the rain. The season cools. Plums fulfilled, then shrivel. Leaves yellow, dry and curl, meet shadow, think ruin, imagine removal. And what do we know of the soul of winter but its frayed black braided ribbon. Gravesend. Yet in the garden, the translucent snakeskin offers a hint of persistence. Seeds frost and sleep. Hope is the silver filament that coils from spring’s fragile soil. And isn’t this love? Pit of our pit, red of marrow, life-force pink. GAMBLER from last page books and listening to videos and podcasts on mental health and recovery, I take what works for me and leave the rest. This is again where Ecclesiastes comes in. One of my favorite Bible verses is Ecclesiastes 7:16-18. It says, “Don’t be over-righteous neither be overwise, why destroy yourself?” “Don’t be overworked and do not be a fool — why die before your time?” (Both good questions). “It is good to grasp one and not let go of the other. Whoever fears God will avoid all extremes.” I’ve realized that nothing is absolute and something that works for someone else may not work for me. So The Gambler seems to be giving advice on acceptance, change, compromise, patience, intuition and balance. But then there are his last words of wisdom, which turn out to be his last words. The Gambler said, “The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.” This reminds me of the meaninglessness of Ecclesiastes. Unless medicine hugely revolutionizes, every single person on Earth (and the International Space Station) whether successful or a loser, rich or poor, a humanitarian or a sociopath, right wing Republican or left-wing Democrat, Christian or Atheist, in 150 years will be gone and it will be all new people on Earth. In the history of the world or even human history, 150 years is a fraction of history. If I become a famous writer, or if I drink myself to death, or any number of other possibilities, in 150 years it will be a different world. Then The Gambler crushes out his cigarette and fades off to sleep. The song says he “breaks even” which I take to mean he dies. But it turns out his life isn’t meaningless. The Narrator says that in The Gambler’s final words he found an “Ace” that he could keep. The Narrator gained wisdom, wisdom that I’m trying to continue to share 50 years later. That’s the irony of “The Gambler.” The song finds meaning in meaninglessness. I find that’s true with much of art, poetry, music, and movies. Morning Nothings That Mean Everything LORRAINE LAMEY Groundcover contributor Like a farmer with her buckets for feeding, watering, and rinsing, I make my morning rounds and sound a smacked lip chirp cardinal style with a pur-dee-bur-dee-bur-dee-bur-dee — (or two) thrown in for good measure — to let all the birds know their bath and watering holes are refreshed, and their feeders are full, as full as my heart when I round the garden of nectar blooms with the buzzies and flutterbyes already busy at their feast, while the joyful ones zip and hover between their hummingbird feeder and the forest of blooms. Neighbors stroll by in the perfect summer sun — blue sky, warm air, with a kiss of the north wind dissipating humidity and heat. Some have dogs who love skritches, strokes, and singing praise. Once again indoors, sunshine and fresh air stream through the open windows and screens unveiled after weeks of stultifying dripping heat, all to the soundtrack of WRCJ's classical tunes and Dr. Dave's dad jokes about long dead composers: You say "Carmina." I say "Burana." Let's call the whole thing "Orff." Peace breathes in and out of the morning air, falls like dew on leaf and blade. March RYAN MCCARTY Groundcover contributor My old neighbor’s staying with a woman around the block. It’s the start of spring. She works days. His feet are killing him. He needs a lift to Family Dollar. He’s planning a feast for her, something to cook in the less-cold sun. He’s carrying two phones but no chargers. One has a lock screen with a close-up of her breasts. All I can think to say is, with two phones, he could’ve spread the shot out. That gives him a jolt. There are four other cars in the lot, with four drivers waiting for someone, arms out their windows, soaking heat from the sun-beat sides of their cars. My neighbor decides on tuna with relish. She never eats after work anyway. But he scored triple-As for the universal remote. Now it’s a dinner show. He’s so worked up, he forgot the painkillers for his feet. It’s ok. He’s got a fresh set of batteries. GROUNDCOVER NEWS Musings at the Market PETER MICHAELSON Groundcover contributor In Ann Arbor this bright morning, my joy shoots up ten watts: a parking spot opens up by the Farmer’s Market’s flower pots. It’s late July, the hottest time up here in the north country. I slip into the knots of people eyeing the organics. Peaches preen and pepper powders sneeze at the gentle people gliding to their ease. They all take baby steps and are pleased with where they glance. Here time tarries where, entranced, the Motown Bakery and Cider Mill ogle fat blueberries in ten-pound boxes. The Green Things Farm Collective says the goodies are gourmet. Banter at the Frog Holler Farm booth claims the world will be okay. If I had a purist’s devotion, I would eat that Stony Creek cabbage and apply this Great Goat Lotion. Here the coffee tastes like slam poetry set to the bongs of an explosion. Caffeinated, my pensive mind throngs among the townies. Nature is so lush, I muse, and we stumble around bumping into her, smashing into her, not like this pressed juice we gently crush. We harm what overwhelms us, I deduce. I curb this grief, come back to the moment to romance the treats: baby kale, Mindo chocolates, fresh pressed juice, Dexter beef, Hippy Tea, pierogies and purses. Frozen natural meats coexist with catnip, snake, and shrimp plants. Flowers charm the eyes and crown the crowd by Fluffy Bottom Farms. Hey Honey consoles the dead duck and walleye across the aisle. The mushroom man sells caviar of fungi. Ennobled in Flora and Fauna’s showplace, we become the grace that smiles at passers-by. 15
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