“Winter Sunrise,” by S.R. Badmin; the Covid Memorial Wall with commemorative hearts in London; and a local community art project on my town green in 2020.

They are tying ribbons on the trees now

for the first responders and emergency workers,
the caregivers, the doctors and nurses,
for all the healthcare providers
and essential workers,
wearing their masks and their bravery
into the fray.

So I tied a ribbon onto the nearest tree 
to honor those serving on the front lines—
only the ribbon wouldn’t reach all the way around
the trunk like I wanted it to, like a hug.
Instead, I tied the ribbon around a branch,
one that looked like it was reaching out to help
or to comfort, maybe a neighboring tree—
only there weren’t any other trees nearby.

Even at a distance, this tree could be connecting 
deeply through its roots, together though apart,
as we write to long-lost friends, sew makeshift masks
for neighbors, and inquire whether we can donate blood
all while gathering up our ribbons or perhaps some yarn, 
braided & homespun, to tether to the nearest telephone pole,
bus stop sign, park bench, gate post, or latch: even wondering
whether our shoelaces would suffice for showing solidarity
at times when we do our small part by staying home.

And this tree will wear its ribbon as a symbol of aid,
like insignia medics wore in past pandemics and wars,
because snow is falling on field hospitals this winter
and the front lines feel like wartime—
and for us all, this is a time for love & grief,
for heartache, and reaching out,
and digging deep.

This poem was published in Rue Scribe in March 2021, and an earlier version was also published in Northern New England Review’s special issue, “Front/Lines: Nurse Poets & Pandemic Perspectives,” in Spring 2020.