Linda McCauley Freeman
The Sun is Not Any Closer Today
But all layers shielding us have evaporated.
We wear dark goggles and special hooded
suncoats when we must go outside.
The grass is long gone, only a memory
of green. Underground tunnels connect
us to our neighbours. The subway carts
us downtown where subterranean shops
cluster. My grandmother has photos
of trees and hills dotted with glorious
wildflowers. She says she grew up
among them.