We lie but do not rest in peace beneath a white shroud. Sea to shining sea, there is no footing in this block of ice though human footprints soften in drowning snow.
The sound of my own thoughts is the only sound I hear.
Snow is a quiet that’s not the absence of sound but a sound itself.
Different than the hush that keeps spiraling in a year of tornadoes, floods, fires and quarantine.
Perhaps it’s the lone balance for the chatter of political dissent that roared ceaselessly across the airwaves, on twitter, the internet, our conversations, that kept us in touch.
Eleven months after global quarantine, we shelter in place once more.
Nature’s shots keep pace with shots in arms. Her power is a fury.
Blessed be the tired earth as it slays its inhabitants again.
The virus persists but the people weary of worry laid down their guard and rushed to work and habit.
Lack of discipline or protection sent us back to life marked at dawn ringing alarms.
Alarm. What is that? How is that a word to wake up to?
Alarm is the ringing bell of my awakening.
How long must I hide out because others will not?
Their habits prolong my prison sentence as they excuse themselves from the table.
How will I get to my ailing parents?
What use am I to anyone here in the confines of my home asylum.
Every day the same day. Every thought the same thought.
But now the snow melts and rain moves toward us on the scent of spring.
The nature of man is undeniable.
Even as we ready for floods, warned again,
We rise from the burial ground like ghostly shadows
And reach for the light.