A Poem that was written by Laurie Jameson, March 28, 2020
…and the Virus rocks
the World but not the cradle,
it’s more intent on the grave,
aiming for the elderly who
are counting last breaths
anyway…and still a sparrow
comes to sip at the brink
of a red clay dish and doves
call out their solemn, but
soothing, invocation to the
morning. I could weep…but
what good would that do?
Instead, I dress in rags and put
on dirty shoes, holey socks,
and tiptoe out into an early day
beset with wind and forgotten
rain. I take pains with shovel
and hand trowel, scraping away
red mulch to expose the earth
underneath, a tiny grave, but
one excavated for the purpose
of planting the dozen seedlings
I purchased yesterday having
driven 30 miles to a crossroads
…where, blessedly, the nursery
sign flashed “OPEN…Limit
Ten People.” Only two other
couples strolled the wide aisles,
seeking pickling cucumbers and
extraordinarily hot jalapenos.
We raised wide eyes, wary
but kind, nodding our hellos,
not even speaking, as if even
a single world could be a carrier
of something so profound it
was hourly, minutely, changing
humanity’s purpose on the
troubled, over-weight Earth.
I had to scold myself into
breathing, into accepting,
into suggesting to the glove
wearing cashier that the small
amount of change coming back
to me be kept in case another
weary wayfarer seeking peace
came up short…