Jesse Doiron
May 9, 2021
Sweet Ursula wakes warm as milk this morn
From dreams, adrift upon the true sublime,
All bundled up like some forlorn unborn,
afloat within a fetal mindless time.
She hesitates her eyes to un-crossed climb
From focused snout to harsh and rock-bound light.
A swarm of bees buzz eerily off-rhyme,
While birds bring in their singing out of sight.
Poor Ursula, confused just who is right,
Passes a paw across her muzzy nose,
Gives moan to groan and grumbles in her plight.
(The neighbor bears nearby are still a doze.)
Thus, with her winter-ragged coat undone,
Sweet Ursula now stumbles into sun.
Jesse Doiron spent 13 years overseas in countries where he often felt as if he were a “thing” that had human qualities but couldn’t communicate them. He teaches college, now, to people a third his age. He still feels, often, as if he is a “thing” that has human qualities but can’t communicate them.
