Tag Archives: covid19

careless

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I have become careless
in this lockdown time
as if this time was out of regular old normal time

This morning, I reached in for blueberries and found them already molded, gone gray
and lettuce wilted to slime
I have become careless with the food someone else gathered from shelves and plunked down in my car trunk
only to be thrown out just after the weekly garbage pick up.

I have become careless with friendships and relations
Calls early on in March and April were tinged with panic and overwrought sentiment
Now most maskless and tired of all the worry,
they have moved on,
leaving me behind closed doors and silent phones.

Squandering these moments,
I have become careless with time itself
as if these hoarded hours will be added on
to the end of my days-
a bonus for being good and careful

junk mail

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I listen to the men working
on digging a long deep trench
across the road.
Now, no way to get in,
no way to get out.

How appropriate a metaphor
don’t you think-
we are here, either in place
or out in the world,
each with our own freedom in tact.

But we can’t get in or out
of this old world alive,
don’t you know.

And how will the nice lady
who delivers the mail
and gives the small dog treats
ever find her way
with our unasked for mail.

habit forming

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He has taken to worry
not something in his wheelhouse
never had a care in the world
It was always my occupation
until I gave worry up for Lent
and forgot to pick it back up

So now he has become a list maker
and a fine print reader
and a washer of hands singing
an extra verse for good measure

I am happily ensconced in his newly acquired habit
as the worry lines behind his mask
accentuate his beautiful blue eyes

tick

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it is quiet
not quiet like completely silent
there are sounds of finches, a robin,
cooing doves, the rain

but quiet
away from cities and busyness and traffic
where I can hear my soul ticking like a tiny
alarm clock

the kind you used to see
sitting on the desk of your favorite aunt
or teacher
or your grandmothers vanity

I listen to that faint tick
and wonder if I have done enough
in my time
to bring peace
before the mechanism justs runs down

there are 36 righteous men in the world
holding our places to heaven
their foot in the door
keeping it wedged open
so we can slide in
no matter whether we listened to the
ticking
and did our best
to find quiet
and peace in this fraught world

panting at the door

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Night of the Cold Moon

the door was ajar
open to the night
and its calls
and untraceable
sounds, rustling in the wind
wildness panting at the door

the masks they wear
loud mouths painted
and eyes covered
shielded from glare of sun
and moon
unselfconscious in their fury
wildness panting at the door

more than anything
wandering in the dark
they are what I fear

Spring, in the year of….

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close up of leaf

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

be still
my heart flutters and
I wonder if I have forgotten my medication

my heart flutters
like a small butterfly wafting
against the cool morning breeze

there are no symptoms
of anything other than Spring
just Spring and all that goes with it

my heart flutters
Spring in the year of the plague

the sincerity of light

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May sunrise

the sincerity of light
as the sun moves
from its morning to afternoon shade
its good natured
as nature most times can be
resting easy on the shoulders of old oaks
and old women
gently easing chilled worries and tender buds
from winters long ill-ease

its the goodfaith
of spring sunlight
as it sometimes hides behind gray clouds
or buildings, dark and shuttered,
the faith that its light will shine out
even if its in the face
of the April egg moon

And you can see in its earnestness
in the warmth of setting
blazes
scarlet and gold
gold enough to hold in your hand
to hold tightly in your hand
until the next mornings light

dresser drawer

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Her husband has died.

I think about that as I fold the laundry
And put your t-shirts away.
How will I know if you have left me?
Standing here at your dresser,
Things emptied from your pockets
Scattered among the photos-
Framed memories of fishing trips,
Your birthday a few weeks before we were married,
Costume parties and the family
Grinning at the camera.

Will your image fade from view
Even in these?
Will what we are become undone
As you become undone?
I can’t think of it
The fantasy too real to dwell on.
Her husband is gone
But you are not.

I smooth the wrinkles from the cotton shirt
And close the dresser drawer.