Poem: It is All Real

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It is All Real

Outside, spring is happening.
The grass greens. There are buds on the lilacs.
Birds sing. On a sunny day
like yesterday, you can sit in the sun
and feel its warmth permeate you.

It is not the life you supposed,
the one you were accustomed to.
That life ran faster. Harder. It was full,
perhaps too full.
You are just discovering that in this prison of quarantine.

This morning, you slept late.
You woke up rested.
There was time for coffee and conversation
as the cats waited impatiently to be let out.
It is becoming habit, sleep, and enough of it.
Your body can feel the difference.

More importantly, so does your mind.
It does not wake up clogged and foggy.
Your demons, if not silenced, have been reduced
to a hoarse whisper.

There is less, to be sure. Less food. Less certainly.
Less money.
Less conversation with strangers.
Less freedom to move and live and do.
Less safety. More fear.

Those things are real.
but so too is the sun and the first flowers of spring.
So too is the waft of perfume on the woman you love,
or the evenings with doors open
and the fresh wind as you read on the porch.

It is all real
and we savor what we can,
when we can, manna after all,
comes not when we will,
but when God wills,
and it is good when we allow it to be good.
Never all we want.
Always all we need.

About this poem

I hate this time of quarantine as much, perhaps more as the next guy.

But you know what? It’s not all bad.

Tom

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