by Patricia Bollin
I’m looking at YES, this mosaic
of glass, wood and intention
as it tilts slightly toward the light
wanting to arrow its body.
Each of its capital letters has legs
of recycled colored glass, perhaps
ready to run out the window
near where just a nail holds it to the wall.
The artist could have gone with MAYBE
as a doodle and left it unfinished.
Or a plain hard NO of shattered glass.
Did he too have enough of un-yessing
in these long indoor pandemic days,
when no we can’t meet for lunch at Jade
and maybe if it doesn’t rain a brief walk will work.
So the choice was YES and a mask.
Now we listen as predictable gray skies
clap for patience. But YES reminds me that soon
closets filled with hanging shirts will open,
arms raised ready to loose all the un-given hugs.
Kisses will fly right to lips and still be moist.
Yes-smiles will be seen, not shrouded.
And even weary workers will gladly stand
packed tightly on the subway journey home.
Patricia Bollin lives quietly in Portland Oregon. Her poems have appeared most recently in the anthology Footbridge Above the Falls: Poems by Forty-Eight Northwest Poets, and periodicals including Gyroscope Review, Stirring, a Literary Collection, Passager and Mezzo Cammin. Daniel Morris lives in Portland, Oregon. He plays with broken glass. He also has a doctorate in public health and a masters degree in physics. “I pick up scrap metal and shiny objects on the street. I get scrap wood from my neighbor. My mosaics are products of these ingredients.”