Our National Lullaby

Let us all lend  our  voices,

lilting and low,

in a lullaby to the little ones

born of those we do not know.

Whose mothers and fathers,

are essential workers:

 nurses and doctors

EMT's and ambulance drivers

cashiers and grocery stockers,

cooks, and waiters

deliverers and truckers

farmers and Laborers

 firefighters and policemen,

That are leaving sometimes,

For all time in this dire time, their own,

To show the ultimate love for

Our dear ones who are alone where we cannot go.

If they cannot sing to their own,

Let us do this for them for any and all of them.  

The Screened-in Porch

The screened-in porch, located at the back of the house, under the shade of the Beech tree, is perfect for summer.

The porch opens onto a deck and overlooks a flower garden.

On the deck, geraniums are blooming bright, ruby, red,  like giant strawberries; if they were edible, they’d be luscious.

In the garden astilbe are red too,  maroon blooms contrast nicely with the shiny green leaves.

All in bright electric blue, the tall delphiniums look ready for Cinderella's ball.

A pair of downy woodpeckers, I usually see singly, are sharing the same trunk of the oak tree.

The bird box you can see from here is full of chirping baby wrens, whose parents frantically dash in and out with offerings.

Inside the porch the dust lies thick on the glass-topped rattan table, holding the lamp and the fuchsia. It has only three blooms left from Mother’s Day.

Once a table filled this room, soothing and cool of weekday dinners and weekend parties.

The empty chairs stare back at me.

They are comfortable.

One day they too will be filled.

Bubbles During Covid

Bubbles we once knew as round effervescences

blown  through  the air from children's wands,

or floating in profusion in bathtubs and soapy dishwater.

Now my car is my bubble, and I am inside it.

I wait for my groceries to be loaded into my car.

It’s quiet and stuffy in here.

But I am so lucky to be retired

and able to afford food.

This is my weekly outing except to buy something I can't get online,

or pick up carry-out dinners.

People stream in and out of the store with their bags and boxes of groceries.

No one talks to anyone unless it involves the purchases,

or they have come here together.

I see someone I might know under her mask but don’t talk to.

 She doesn’t see me on the inside of my windshield.

Our lives are now in a bubble,

from our cars,

from our homes,

from our computers,

from our Netflix

from our minds in a bubble,

with thoughts ricocheting around.