And when this ends we will emerge, shyly
and then all at once, dazed, longhaired as we embrace
loved ones the shadow spared, and weep for those
it gathered in its shroud. A kind of rapture, this longed-for
laying on of hands, high cries as we nuzzle, leaning in
to kiss, and whisper that now things will be different,
although a time will come when we’ll forget
the curve’s approaching wave, the hiss and sigh
of ventilators, the crowded, makeshift morgues;
a time when we may even miss the old-world
arm’s-length courtesy, small kindnesses left on doorsteps,
the drifting, idle days, and nights when we flung open
all the windows to arias in the darkness, our voices
reaching out, holding each other till this passes.
I learned so much from the daily meditation and writing practice in March and April. Thanks to Amy Souza and others for continuing it (9am, PST, call 503-300-2534).
In these times, I’m looking for ways to act. Writing with other people feels sacred. Please see my latest blog post about the experience of those amazing calls.
On my calendar you’ll find a few new workshops, a salon, and an amazing, free writing conference coming up.
Write with me.
Write me. Let me help you write.