Praise the long mornings:
No rush hour, no traffic lines,
coffee with biscotti,
the swell of birdsong in trees,
raindrops bejeweling branches.
Praise the whimsical theories,
the time of learning names of flowers:
Zinnia, Impatiens, Gladioli.
A habit of haiku acquired
on counting fingers, syllabic abacus.
Praise the practical magic:
front door chats, pinging phones,
cosy cocoon of evenings watching
the breaking news of the moon, light
pooling on night darkened streets.
Praise the new technology:
Zoom meetings, pixelated faces,
live streamed theatre without the queues.
Tobogganing penguins somewhere
in the South Shetlands,
virtual flowers in Monet’s garden.
Praise the novelty of the long-lost ordinary:
a café, an unmasked smile, laughter lines.
Praise the inner sanctum of self
found in the space where ‘be’
replaces ‘do’ after ‘to.’ Poetry,
rhythm of rain, hibernating heart
attuned to the minutiae of life again.
Praise the strength gathered, the hope gleaned.
Bone marrow of winter, of spirit
on display, flint hard, soul spark.
Future a shimmering mirage