I wrote a poem
Celebrating spring
And dolphins in Venetian canals

An Italian friend wrote, “The canals of Venice are clean, but I have ambulance sirens in my ears night and day reminding me of all those people dying alone. I can’t stand all this. I’m sorry.”

I love quiet days
Quarantined
With my husband

I miss eating dinner with my mother, playing bridge with friends, wandering slowly through grocery store aisles, babysitting our grandson.

I am grateful
The President
Is listening
To medical scientists

I worry that he did not listen soon enough and will not listen long enough.

I rejoice in spring
Lenten roses, primroses
Daffodils, violets, vinca
Buds and blossoms

I mourn for a world on pause, with sickness, anxiety and death the common denominator.

I pray
Because
I believe

I doubt in my own belief, knowing the shape of it to be culturally determined.

I seesaw
Always

But now I see it, feel it, experience it, live with it, every hour of every day.

Seesaw sickness

Veracity vertigo

I see the bottle
White Wine
on the bookcase
under my kitchen window

In France
the village is old
spilling down the hillside
for centuries

Golden stone
creates the buildings
towering close
unbroken lines
over narrow streets

From the ancient church at the top
to the merely old church at the bottom

Through the village
to the turn off
dirt road into the small
grandly named
Chateau Les Eydins

I remember the dogs
two of them
Invisibly tethered to the farmhouse
or is it the chateau
stopping in the bushes
at the edge of the winery
the vignoble

I remember envying Wendy’s beautiful
to my ears
French

And my stumbling attempts

But that village
all of life’s security
in that narrow street
winding down
between those golden buildings

Some people would feel claustrophobic
I tell Wendy
I feel only safe
on our way to the winery

We each bought two bottles

One sits
now
on the bookcase
under my kitchen window

The day darkens.
The breeze breezes.
The clothes sway on the line.

I hung them out late and left them out through the light rain sprinkles. Tomorrow will bring sun. I pretend that sun and rain and more sun will ensure they are germ free.

I sip the last of my white wine.
I hear night sounds
and traffic sounds –
A back garden in the city.
Life in the time of quarantine –
how lucky I am.

I am not sure
if swallows have returned to Capistrano
but dolphins have returned to Venice

We walk our back garden
alone together

The weeping cherry
drops white tearlets
onto purple Solomon’s seal
surging up from winter rest

Bolder peonies
in deep red
are already knee high

Daffodils and Lenten roses
nod their greetings
while shy vinca tries to hide
their blue in green skirts

Radishes arise
as we bury potatoes

Bloodroot’s pure white flowers
beneath budding trees
belie its name

Our constructed world slows
as God’s world grows

And dolphins swim past
quiet Venetian streets

My dog died
just before February leaped,
leaped into a pandemic.

I went to France
just before March crept,
crept into a crisis.

I returned home
just before time slowed,
slowed for everyone.

I sit here now
going nowhere fast,
keeping all distant,

and mourn for a world
that seemed to stop
when my dog died.

Noble Antigone
Intent upon God’s right
A king’s decree be damned
Murmured ritual
Sprinkled soil

And hanged herself

killing inconstant Harmon
innocuous Eurydice

Leaving only
Grieving
Chastened
Creon

Only?

What of Ismene?
Where wanders the practical sister?
How mourns the sole survivor?
What keeps her awake in darkest night?
Twisting her bed sheets
Wandering echoing halls
Grief? Guilt? Anger? Frustration?
Loneliness?

Bold Antigone
Flames bright
For a brief moment
And lives forever

Sad Ismene
With tempered loyalty
Lingers long
And dies unmourned

From deep roots the waning winter world thrusts bare gray trees high into the sky.
Small upstarts of tufted green dare to challenge the browned ground.
Rich brown mulch, with easily imagined deep musk smells, shroud dead gardens.
Dark dense evergreens ever stalwart begin to laugh out lighter edges.
Beneath them, bold green spikes cluster close seeking reassurance that flowers will soon bloom.
Wooden fences sport new boards, proud repairs mending old injuries.
A quiet sky lingers between bright and dull, awaiting fresh energy.
The country road curves and curves again uneager to arrive anywhere.
An orange clad runner appears, strange hurrying through a waiting world.
Not Quite Spring

My attention veers
From wonder
To defense

Most of my wonder is not weighty

I wonder
What to fix for dinner
Which sweater to take on my next trip
Who should I ask to lead the committee
Where did I put my favorite earrings
When will I find time to do my taxes
Why is that one dusky rose still beautiful, erect and whole, in the narrow vase, a year later
How did the Catholic Church become so invested in denying the full imago Dei of women

Then my fingers, in a moment of escapism
Tap the Facebook icon
I have notifications
I read several argumentative comments
On a recent post I wrote

Only with conscious effort
A ridiculously necessary exertion of willpower
Do I delete my half-written defense
Close Facebook
And write this

I feel proud and grateful
And I wonder
When did the opinions
Of such lightly known friends become important