The Worried Well

A poem from the depths of COVID lockdown.

We breathe. We binge.
We look for ways
to help; applaud 
essential bodies,
stitch masks, and 
order take-out.

We see family.
We avoid family.
We conference call
with nephews as though
they have the quarter’s
last projections.

We walk. We drive.
We forget in
welcome lapses
of the graves
they dig for 
bodies like our own.

We breathe.

We remember - 
that the creek still flows 
downhill, past the ospreys
and the egrets and 
the blue crabs
might run early. 

That the water turns 
from fresh to salt.
That the tides reverse 
the river’s flow.
That the tides reverse
the river’s flow.