A broken tulip

.
.
.
of this poetry journal.
How many days – weeks – months are we at?
Don’t know. Too many.
Businesses are slowly, cautiously, reopening.
We’re allowed back into the sunshine.
There’ll be no quick return to normal,
still, we’re hoping the worst is behind.

Our government has declared themselves
non-essential (which I consider comical).
Practical implication: no opposition in the house
for another year. The current party may work
their sweet will. It seems if politics is about parties
trying to make the country better and disagreeing on how,
they must find – between their oppositional differences –
some common ground. If the mark of wisdom
is valuing rebukes, there isn’t much hope
for Canada.

Other news: homemade masks are thick
and push up on my eyelids. You may not touch
your mask so that one slow drip of sweat sliding
beside your nose down to your mouth
is all it takes to make you go wild.

We wait grimly for the numbers
of suicides, murders, abuse, addictions,
steadily climbing. We brace ourselves
for the crash of the economy, should it come.

We hoe our vegetable gardens
and plant many flowers. They grow eagerly
in the sticky heat. We look up and smile
and give thanks for every breath we breathe.
.
.
.
Here we are: two and a half months of daily poems during coronavirus are published on the blog (remember when we were hoping life would go back to normal after two weeks? :)).

This seems like a good place to stop. I’m not a fan of going public with social and political commentaries, but now that people are restricted less to home that’s where the stories of this pandemic are — on the social and political levels. So I’m going to switch gears on this blog.

Come back on Monday, in June, for an exploration of how to take care of our minds, our creativity, and our imagination!