Pandemic 2020

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Pandemic 2020

Do the trees know?
Can they sense a distortion of the natural order
as more birds, wildlife, and people abound?

Our sailboat of time has slipped from its mooring,
there are no buoys to orient now
We once measured our children's growing height with pencil marks on doors
Now the days bleed together yet the months sprint by
The dissonance of standing in place, safe, scared, and bored
yet the uncelebrated birthdays, anniversaries, hugs and social
gatherings mount in the blurred void of alienating amnesia

How can the summer be ending?
I have not worn my bathing suit once
Yet the weather, seasons, yank us forward like an impatient
dog walker with a slumberous pet

With Zen like new baby eyes, each new season a virgin experience, as if never fully felt before
The leaves will turn dazzling shades, and then scatter
Cool night time breezes will tug bedroom curtains
making sleep a most pleasurable release
The tile floor will feel cold in the morning,

The seasons, our new old markers of time
more natural than those we could ever invent
will hold court until man can temporarily outsmart
a virus that has no illusion of time

Mark Shoenfield

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