Springtime 2020

You were dressing for the theater when the world shut down—

for dinner, for a stroll through peopled shopping space and 

gold-lit outdoor fountains.

Instead your plans popped out like pushpins one by one,

letting the inked-in calendar float to the floor 

as you stood by in heavy quiet

and time turned feral.

Outside, they said, a threat—a tiny thing but monstrous— 

crept uncontained.

You stayed behind your doors and blessed the walls, the roof, 

the floor that held you. 

Then one dim dawn, the floor itself shocked you awake, 

sent cracks through your illusion of steady ground below.

Earth sways with zero notice. It tilts and jolts and growls. It growls.

Did you know?

Earth quakes in fits and starts and leaves you shaken, wary, watching.

But no, this isn’t news. Not to you. 

You felt your world drop out before it ever fully formed.

Loss ran through your veins as you grew.

You knew.

So here’s the solid truth: things heave that should hold strong.

Plans set in stone melt in a moment.

People stay until they can’t

and your clenched fists? They have no say. 

But look; be still for now. That snow-soft tree is buzzing

and the old air stirs and brings you living scents from people passed.

And while you waited, frozen, forgetting how to fill your lungs,

Spring came back anyway.