Hour Eleven: Pandemic Play

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.

2 thoughts on “Hour Eleven: Pandemic Play

  1. 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.

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