In the spring of fever

Staying home is light duty when compared to the daily round of danger faced by health workers and all the other essential neighbors who live fully exposed to the coronavirus pandemic.

But even light duty gets old after long enough. As my friend Bob told me long ago, “It’s not the length of time that bothers me; it’s the intensity.” Boredom and uncertainty, with just a touch of panic, makes for an intense mix.

In the meantime, as Michael Valentine Smith remarked succinctly, but cryptically – in Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land – “Waiting is.”

In the spring of fever

Facebook tells me the trillium are blooming downstate
but I have not seen one, and that the heron have returned,
though I have not seen one fly. Somewhere fruit trees bloom,
but not the old apple beside my drive. Not yet. Not yet.

Each day it’s easier to keep indoors, working, watching
the news, working some more. Making another meal
and washing up. Keeping to a sensible bedtime. Waiting,
hiding out, the way a hare waits out the prowling owl.

Each day is much like the next – four weeks, five weeks?
What is time? The hair has grown down over my ears.
The days blow by like leaves. This is how, in fairy tales,
the wizard, lost in thought, turns into a tree on the hill.

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