I know the craziness will pass,
and that it’s all just a moment in time
and all I need do is bide my time inside.
Yet, I pine for the feel of soil under my feet,
between my fingers and under my nails,
and I wash my hands,
not because I fear Covid,
the microbial menace I cannot see
until it is too late,
because I do.
I long for the isolation of my little garden
but not the separation from my friends.
In my garden, social distance doesn’t matter
unless it is to give a wide birth
to a friendly bee
who I envy the way it spends its time
caressing the stigma and pistils of blossoms
soon to be fruit.
I pine for a warm embrace
as I video chat with my children
and am one sad story away from a river of tears
as I worry if we will be the next tale of grief.
My son, in a mask, does a doorway visit
to drop off masks he has crafted for our use
“Use them so others feel safe when you and mom need to shop”.
We are the Tuesday morning shoppers between seven and eight,
the time allotted for the elderly to shop,
a sign of the times.
Wishing it would all go away,
and once again I can pat my neighbor on the back
or sit across from friends and chat.