On the map, Florida
points south, surrounded by blue.
A tangle of roads leads to the middle,
our home beneath the waves of
cloudy mysteries, leaves, and sunlight.
My last hug with another human
took place weeks ago
in the Publix deli section
with a former student whose college
had just extended his spring break
until the end of the semester.
We laughed at our error--
people aren’t supposed to hug
right now, but some things
are so natural. It’s taken
some time to learn the new rules.
Now I won’t even hug my own
daughter, who drove across town
last night to pick up an essential
chunk of homemade carrot cake,
handed over in veils of plastic,
then go back home again,
the orange sky glowing around her.
People are doing their best--
makeshift gyms in carports,
office spaces carved out of
kitchens and bedrooms,
toddlers screaming in the background
of business meetings,
students tuning in for class
on screens of all sizes.
Days lie in front of us like beads
in long, monochromatic strands.
Like in grief, we wake
and only then remember--
life is different now. But will we recall,
when these days are talked of
in the invisible future, that
so many did the right thing,
helped and saved lives with no
evidence, only dozens of small
actions every day, keeping us
safe, safe, safe? And the thousands
in uniforms and scrubs,
throwing fear behind them
on the way to work.
It’s true, not everybody
will be OK. We are learning
that a pandemic requires
a deep dive Into expansive thinking,
awareness of others’ worlds
all spinning right next
to our own. The human family
is here for you; be here for us.
Which might mean not being here
or there, physically.
Meanwhile, declare no guilt about
glistening happy moments,
and look to the unworried
animals around us for guidance.
That cat, poking through
a flowerbed; that smiling dog,
taking his human for another joyful
walk; that anhinga, shaking
out its slatted wings on a lakeside
cypress knee to doze in the sun.
That’s what we call
life going on.