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