This was written for dVerse. I failed on being consoling, I think…I’m sure. Maybe?
Fragile I invoked all steps of grief obsessed, brokered, denied, raged, instilled my own flavor added disbelief as if a recipe for humanity. I’ve watched my neighbors, idle, milling like lost lemmings circling neighborhood streets grouping, noon and break of evening no hope in their parade None observe the redbuds blooming nor the hawk perched on the willow branch notice honeybees or the song of the cardinal Balls bounce, bikes navigate, roses go unsmelled. They run, march, cycle, round and round and round. circles, attention riveted inward, They chat, imbibe their phones, they are but mostly are not. The weather alarm, my new gadget, blasted this morning, 4 am. How could I not think the world was in danger? Muddle-headed, virus instilling fear I plodded downstairs. Severe thunderstorm. I put on the kettle, brewed tea. In the cul-de-sac deer ran. In my planter a mourning dove perched on eggs. The morning not yet broken—by people. We possess this time to see yet not look outward, observe, hear, beyond our being to the beauty around us every day. And because I believe if I asked, what are we grateful for: Netflix or Youtube or Animal Crossing might be the answer I have no hope anything’s been learned. I do have hope I am wrong but my hope's fragile much like life. end