Time in quarantine,
bears the luxury, largely,
for this largely introverted soul, of quiet:
given to rambling about a spacious home with the one I love
and slow strolls
about a graveled, crepe myrtle-canopied drive
and across verdant mown grass,
amid colorful flora rising at Nature’s bidding
to celebrate the everyday’s sunrise,
the brilliant orb set in a less-polluted sky of blue;
whilst my mind gambols o’er expanses of thought,
murmuring wonders of imagined new normals.
Nevertheless, I (cannot help but) think of others…
All who dwell in vastly smaller spaces
and in far more crowded places
with greater numbers of the ailing,
thus, having to bear graver strictures
on daily living and moving and having being.
And all whose schedules, self-taught tempos of living
have been ravaged by this global-crown-of-thorns-virus;
if working, then teleworking:
their weekdays and weekends,
their individual and family mealtimes and bedtimes,
blending, crashing, one into another, indistinguishably, tumbling,
seconds, minutes, hours end on end;
endless questions, some without answer, arising, constantly self-repeating:
What time…day is it?
Where are we…going?
When does…will this end?
And all whose living has been lost;
they battering with hollow hands against closed doors
of empty, unlit buildings, forlorn sites of former labors,
praying for a call, a recall that may (never) come.
And all whose morns are swift followed by nights,
who sleepwalk through noonless days with no balance of light,
who stand in listless lines long made longer by social-distance orders;
folk long already socially-distant who,
having come in from their accustomed margins,
seeking food and water and shelter
from sweltering fears of greater deprivations than they already have borne.
And all who, as Lazarus, have fallen ill,
some into the sleep of death,
and without the nearness of the prayerful caress
of a Martha or a Mary, in hope, to call, to cry for help.
For the sake of these my sisters and brothers,
time in quarantine,
bears the necessary misery