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.