Metaphorically speaking, of course
Don’t look so
bad after 18 days.
Old acquaintances speak from the shelves,
A polyphony of voices.
Serigraphs, framed, five of them.
Big Sur coastline etched behind
skeletal branches, olive dusty oaks
speckled against tawny mid-summer
Gnarled eucalyptus, hallucinogenic
Tear-drop swirling fog, a crane in profile, balanced on a
Japanese watercolor, and
Burnished oak armoire, our little family
Its fourth generation.
But the air now possesses
An extra, palpable dimension
Blow with the wind,
Our world connected by both
The idea of the virulent
And its reality
Moving across the world at
The world has grown quiet.
I used to, on Sunday evenings when
Admiring the brown East Bay Hills turning
Orange in the setting sun, be able to
See half-a-dozen big airliners, landing
Lights on, queued up at ten thousand feet
For arrival at SFO
But this evening, clouds clearing, nary
A plane in sight.
Wild turkeys strut through
Downtown parking lots, wild pigs
Make the rounds through suburban streets,
Streaming services and Clorox
Stock rake it in.
But where will we be
In two weeks?
Enter a new era,
If we are still here to