June 21, 2025


The first day of summer.
The first day of war with Iran.

My cat sits on the coffee table, waiting.
Children crouch in mudflats, hungry.

A friend calls who hasn’t heard.
A murderer gloats.

The library hosts a nature poetry workshop.
Newscasters interview retired generals.

Peace is that place between drafts.
Peace is an ultimatum: or else.

Sparrows trill in the treetops.
Bombs shatter the tight coil of history.

The sun spoons into dark soil.
The sun, eclipsed behind a terrified cloud.

I grieve for what is to come.
Some there are, incapable of grief.

I want to gather those I love.
Some would rather tower than hold.

My mother remembers butter rationing.
The tariff wheel spins, a table of random numbers.

I count the days ahead, stop.
All the traffic lights, stuck on red.

My cat moves to a chair, circles, plops down.
The President approaches the mic, gunning for God.
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Carol Barrett began writing poetry to support the widowed women she was counseling. She has published three volumes of poetry, most recently Reading Wind, and one of creative nonfiction, Pansies. An NEA Fellow in Poetry, Carol supervises creative dissertations for students at both Antioch and Saybrook Universities.