Wild Jessamine 
creeps up the
rough hewn
red wooden slats of the
abandoned house,
sliding over the 
sharp angles of a 
broken window.
 
Trumpeting the arrival
of spring, its
bright yellow blossoms,
redolent with the scent of
hope and joy
burst open.

Driving between our 
daughter’s two houses, 
old in Arlington;
new, in Falls Church,
to transfer breakables,
just before the professional 
movers were scheduled,
on the last trip 
of that ordinary Wednesday,
we made a wrong turn.
By the time 
we realized our error, 
we were trapped in a maze of
roads with few exits.
Although we once knew
These roads, 
years of living away 
made us unsure of
appropriate alternative turnoffs, 
so, like a piece of flotsam, 
we floated down Route 50
east toward DC instead of 
west into Falls church
until Route 50 became Constitution Ave
and I could see the Capitol
looming ahead of us, my husband
looked to the left, 
spotted a sign for 50 West
so we wrenched  the car into 
a u-turn to swim west on 
back into Virginia, a frisson
of fear electrified me,
panic, then release-- no policeman 
pulled us over, in fact, 
in spite of rush hour timing,
our turn involved no
dodging of oncoming traffic,
no frantic high-power merge.
Cars flowed west as lightly
as those heading east. It was
like being on a country road,
or driving on a 1950s Sunday afternoon.
No need for panic in the pandemic.