Bio Note: This is what I’ve been doing in Covid; writing poems about it. I now have a chapbook sized manuscript of them, and am continuing to write more. . . .
Do remember they cannot cancel spring. David Hockney The daffodils spin in social isolation, twirl their ruffled skirts. Six feet away, forsythia fronds bedazzle the wind. Quarantined in separate beds, hyacinth cense the air, spilling perfume on the cold ground. Birds have returned from the tropics, even as the virus spreads. First it was abstract, statistics in news reports. Then we started recognizing names. Then it was our friends, people we loved. We washed our hands until the skin peeled off like petals. We hoarded toilet paper. We tried to hold on to hope, but it was so hard. Even the tulips, once they unfolded, had black hearts. Still, the air softened. We planted peas, spinach, lettuce, green hope. We shared what we had with our neighbors. We learned that love was the only possible currency. When we opened the windows at night, the quiet of a world without the surf of traffic or airplanes felt thick and soft as lamb’s wool. We pulled it up to our ears, and survived.
©2020 Barbara Crooker
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