Poem of the Week

COVID 19, #1

By J’Ann Schoonmaker, my friend

I cried this morning,
remembered to breathe,
opened the door:
Trees still standing,
pale blue sky,
wispy clouds skirting tree tops:
Nothing foreign here.
Daffodils wave
in breezes born
from the west:
Nothing new here.
Tulip buds grow larger
fanning green leaves
bursting to bloom:
Nothing stagnant here.
What else must I notice
this, only, our eighth day of
sheltering in place?