Every morning I check the numbers:
Covid cases and hours of sleep.
Try to focus on the rolling average forest
not the trees, though they blossom and bud.
It’s been a year of seasons.
I mean, of course it has, but so much so this time.
We spent money on woollen things to wrap around us
and from this end of it all I’m glad
to have hunkered down through the worst of it.
Hair growing unruly and the same two outfits.
I buy sparkly skirts in preparation
for whatever good things are surely about to happen
and on the morning after Lotus first sleeps
straight through twelve of the night’s twelve hours
I walk to the corner store for bread and eggs
feeling extraordinarily ordinary
back to some baseline normality
and the forest is not fogged,
but a dappling canopied, mossy floored space
letting wind and light breathe through.