Paint a portrait.
A sunflower splash.
No azaleas for the spring.
Daisy do, I dream of you.
No where to go
to play when the sickness
is here to stay, so
I color my pods’
chords, in fresh foray
in the summer time, too,
when winter cools
the pastels blue, I wait
the icy days through
till robins chirp a tune
the blue of trampled masks
in the gutter strewn.
Let’s play an afternoon away,
splashing color to a song
to frame the lonely long
year, electronically sung
through organ pipe soot,
dusty choir echoes, I put
my ear to the ground,
where once the sound of
children played, dancing
sun beams in the garden–
but not today.
We play.
Haunting how putting “my ear to the ground” conjured up the loss of child’s play. I remember the hardest part of all of this was not being able to take my granddaughters to the park where they could interact with other children. It is framed as “the lonely long” for me too.
Thank you for your thoughtful comment. It was the longest lonely but a transformational year too. The earth sighed and that’s goodness.