She withered
during the pandemic years,
locked in a cell of her own devising.
A songbird,
left to warble
in a dim and empty room.
She suffered
for her vices,
and suffered more
for her virtues,
for never was a gift,
like life,
more troublesome,
than when it might as well not exist.
Everyday
she’d gaze out of the window,
and watch the tree outside
change its leave.
Time would be like fluid,
and then stutter,
as the present, unwanted, came.
Eyes beheld the world
through her devices,
but her mind would never seem
to comprehend
the violence and strife,
and the division
that had taken on the world.
The outdoors called to her,
open sky
and spring rain.
Often she would wonder
if the world
would ever accept her kind again.
To lay,
in the soft, summer grass,
scented breeze off the field.
Sun,
warm and relaxing.
Butterflies and daffodils.
Birds sing,
and in the clear blue,
one small spot of white,
that she watches
with all the intensity of her mind’s eye,
as it grows.
From a small ball,
to almost a perfect sphere,
to an amorphous shape,
bigger than a car.
White billows voluminous
in the sky.
It keeps growing,
stretching out far.
It shades and darkens,
only slightly,
then without warning,
it opens up,
and she imagines,
laying in a sun-shower,
light up on the field.
Fear and death
are ever present,
so she would enjoy
a fantasy
of cleansing rain,
songbirds,
butterflies,
and daffodils.
HG – 2021
