STILL

Marc Alan Di Martino

There are still birds, still things coming to life

in unexpected ways. Still nights and days.

Nocturnal, diurnal. Circadian rhythms

scratching an itch at the back of the throat.

Still family, still friends. Still love

slapping you silly with its rubber tongue,

salt that makes your stomach sing a psalm,

palettes of rusted foliage, stray bees

in November, still buzzing in the lavender.