My calendar got easier last night.
My offspring have decided not to fly
across the country, toward the virus blight
that dominates Southeast. Now some may cry
they’ll miss a wedding ceremony. Right.
They won’t expose the baby or defy
the odds and carry back a viral load
as souvenir for us in their abode.

(Ottava Rima)

This entry was posted in Coronaverse, Family, Health, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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