By Ruth Hoberman

I’d like to think this isn’t sad—
the way the sky hangs blue 
over the gray house across the street,
and snow-heaps jut
like miniature Alps. Serious, 

sufficient I’d like to think, these ordinary
things—ripe 
to pluck and paint. This couple 
passing by outside, say, 
in identical blue coats and lavender hats: 

Lavender! Frank O’Hara’s kangaroos 
leap to mind. 
I can nose out as well as anyone 
what makes life worthwhile—sequins.
say, or Fra Angelico on my bed table

in the New York Review of Books—
those tranquil angled necks, haloes 
like gold bubbles  
around their heads and priceless pigments—
those blues and reds!  

He couldn’t paint a crucifix 
without weeping, 
they said: such vermilion 
drops Christ shed. I’d like to think
this isn’t sad—

this being intent
on ordinary things—this noticing
it’s winter also in Ukraine, 
say, where the howitzers 
are tubular and gray.

~~~

Ruth Hoberman is a writer living with her extended family in Newtonville, Massachusetts.  Her poems and essays have appeared in various journals, including RHINO, Constellations, Consequence, Solstice, and Smartish Pace. @rhoberman.bsky.social