Pandemic Poems - APRIL 2020
Bio Note: I’m a cellist, who, with a slight hand injury, learned to ride a motorcycle one summer when I wasn’t allowed to practice. On long rides, stories and poems welled like trapped oil and were scribbled into my journal at rest stops. I have since won the Thomas Wolfe Prize and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
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.
©2020 Virginia Ewing
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