These days are quiet,
no busy comings and goings,
no school, no commuting, no outings.
Quiet, but for the persistent soft buzz of the collective.
What is happening?
I do love being home with the children,
soft days together
collective naps
baking and cleaning and gardening.
I feel more solid, more whole, more clear as the world slows down.
And,
there is a grief,
a fear,
a sharpness of privilege and suffering,
the anxiety of unknown.
I’ve been waiting for words for weeks now,
expecting a poem to call from the ethers.
But nothing has come.
It’s as if the words are waiting too,
wondering when and if and how to land.
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