I’m on a long and unintended Vipassana retreat,
following my minds inclination without censure.
I’m following my own advice to keep a schedule,
dress every day. I wear sneakers, not slippers
to support my feet and posture, note my habits
and gestures as I talk to myself. I observe how
others cope with staying home alone, skills
I’ve composed since living in the woods through
snow and ice storms. My list of tasks to do grows
longer—scattered books to shelve and organize,
book reviews, cards and letters to virtual friends
to remind them they are real, my cursive words
a blessing in their mailbox. Unfinished sewing
projects spread out on the glass-topped table, days
ahead to conduct them to a conclusion satisfying
as a major chord. From the sunny back porch,
I watch spring roll in. Wave after wave of flowers
around the pond: daffodils, iris, lilacs. They bloom,
cluster, shelter in place, but don’t touch their faces.
                        

Not for a pregnancy, as my mother phrased it,
but for a pandemic with no way to know
when we’ll be birthed whole and normal again.
 
On the news, a new vocabulary—
flatten the curve, social distancing, self-quarantine,
viral load, travel history, state of emergency,
closures and cancellations.
 
Advice for hand washing, cleaning, coughing
into arms. Stop hugging and shaking hands. Stay
home if you can. Don’t touch your face in public space,
 
while apocalypse preppers on the Internet are excited
by their stores of canned meats, ammo and rifles,
wasp and bear sprays in countries without guns.
Long ago, they built hidden pantries to store freeze-
 
dried eggs and beef jerky. They’re bugging in
or bugging out with a bag stuffed with a lightweight tarp,
rain poncho, snake-proof boots. They know how
 
to forage, and how to start a fire when matches run out.
They caution you to never reveal your supplies
or their location, but to be ready to barter with whiskey,
chocolate, bullets, because they’re sure this virus
 
was engineered by Americans in China, and the shit
has already hit the fan. They’re ready with their
water filters. They don’t need toilet paper.
                        

The shape of life holds no divine design
but the permutation of atoms make a range
of life forms we might still discover.
Our time on earth is but a few hours
to look up with awe and wonder
at night skies filled with stars.
 
Immersed in viral worries, who gazes at stars?
We hope our version of this virus is benign,
and doesn’t knock the entire world asunder.
A friend hears from sisters once estranged,
another feels abandoned, sours
on her relationship with her lover.
 
We keep asking, When will this be over?
Too much stress, some kneel to pray at altars,
beseech those in power
to do something to assign
the knowing experts and stop deranged
lunatics from offering advice. They’re under
 
the delusion that our leader isn’t plundering
the treasury as he babbles to take cover
in his ignorance. These times are strange
and interesting. We need a rock star
level intellect to take the helm, to reign
for the duration of this mess. After hours,
 
no one sleeps well. Coronavirus will be our
defining moment in this century, under
the harsh lens of history. Campaigns
for elections will cite this moment, hover
with curses on those who said, Hoax! Starry,
cult followers of the Orange
 
Man may never wake to reason. What Ange 
can save us before the world sours?
Where is the lodestar
to guide us to undo our blunders?
Who will show us how to recover,
to ignore our surface differences and align?
 
We spend hours hoping for a sign,
a star to wish on, wonder about the future
when this time is over, when we rise changed.