I’m being really careful yet again,
for though I never dropped the mask and space,
I did relax the isolation when
I’d had my shots. I dared to then embrace.
I dined inside and laughing, face to face,
and saw the wraith of normalcy emerge.
But I still care for young ones, in their place.
I’ll hunker down until we down this surge.
(Huitain)
Do New Year’s resolutions last that long?
From January 1st to NYE?
They’d have to be constructed firm and strong
to carry you to that vicinity.
I’m certain that’s too far a vow for me –
my imperfection’s bound to bring me sorrow.
I need six weeks to change and, honestly?
My resolutions don’t outrun tomorrow.
(Huitain)
A scented candle you presented me
a year ago, or maybe 2 years back,
has sat beside my loveseat handily,
where I ignited it when skies were black
and air was cold. The new one you just gave
inspired me to light the old and let
it burn away. I had no need to save
it now. I didn’t dream and won’t forget
its inch of wax contained such fragrant powers,
it graced my room for over 16 hours.
It isn’t personal – we can’t go there.
With Omicron in surge, I have to stay
away from you. I can’t risk sharing air,
lest I convey infection that will prey
on kids I see too young to get the shot.
It isn’t that I view you as a threat,
but I don’t know who you abut, who not,
or what your webs of intercourse abet.
If we were to establish you’ve been in
and isolated, limited to few,
and so we met, avoiding touching skin,
and then I caught and spread this vile flu,
you’d worry that you vectored it to me.
So let’s postpone that possibility.
How’d she appear, if gleaning were her goal?
If chatter were to build an atmosphere
where anyone could ponder on a roll?
How’d she appear?
Her purpose is unusual but clear:
she plants the seeds and then she cedes control,
and hopes to later harvest bloom and spear.
Assume she doesn’t lecture or cajole.
Imagine her conceits are scattered near.
If she were reaping nurture for her soul,
how’d she appear?
(Roundel)
Returning home from New Year’s Eve away,
the temperature inside was 52.
I turned the heater on without delay,
but still it took some hours to accrue
the warmth to heat my body through and through.
I cozied by that fire rather late,
and didn’t shut if off till 68.
(Rhyme Royal)
Like dominos cascading one by one,
our socializing plans are toppled now.
That party organized to be such fun
is cancelled, and our prudence won’t allow
me on a plane until this surge has run
its course, until it’s safe to mass somehow.
We found a country cabin we could rent.
For half a week, that’s where my bubble went.
(Ottava Rima)
I don’t know if I’ll see you in two days.
I might not visit Mom as planned this week.
A plane may fly without me – prudence stays
at home, perhaps, to skirt the latest peak.
Alone today I duck contagion’s ways –
tomorrow I can kiss your baby’s cheek,
but that’s as far as you and I can see.
We’ll table plans to plan accordingly.
(Ottava Rima)
The weather app’s nice,
but the window is better,
and outside is best.
Once upon a wired telephone,
party lines were common, and the rates
for talking over distances outshone
the charge for chatting with one’s local mates.
Then folks aspired to a private line –
some lucky teens had units where they slept –
but many had to jostle to confine
their talk and have their gossip closely kept.
Ma Bell was then controlling like a queen,
until by anti-trust compelled to split,
and then the towers turned to cells – the scene
was mobilized and minimized to sit
in hand or pocket, use in car or street,
and now the old equipment’s obsolete.
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