Almost every other thing
but necessity neighbor and family
has fallen by the wayside.
On top of the pandemonium
of world wide disease,
I have a mildly fluky heart,
the pain constant now
behind my left should blade,
worsened by stress.
I know I’m not alone in this.

All these years, earth’s been ticking
along, giving off signals and warnings,
almost ignored. I can hardly think.
I continue to teach my students,
their faces lively on the screen,
strivings of bows and fingers
on cellos offering welcome relief
from fears of illness.
They’re afraid, too.

I had plans, land in New Mexico,
a little house to retreat to,
deciding when to lay down my cello,
turn my craft fully into novel writing.
Is such desire a foolhardy dream?

If the page draws me, then I must
follow the wellspring. No one knows
upon whose ears a story
may fall, welcome as water.
Still, I ask myself this question
each time I sit down to the task:
what is important now?
Reminding myself to breathe,
fuel my blood and ease my heart,
I listen, and wait.