New Times For Old

It wasn’t the first pandemic

and, as in all the ones before

birds sang an opening chorus 

for the pollen laden bees to hum

on their way through the miasma

to the flower borders in the park 

summer buzzing and blooming

bursting into full swing.

But there in the playground

the swings were empty,

the marks on courts fading.

No one played outdoors

and no one played indoors, 

the cafes were as empty as the park.

Isolation was complete that summer.

And now, for some it’s almost forgotten.

For others the old habits have died

and the new old habits are hanging on

carrying emptiness like bees carry pollen.

New rules were made that summer

and its hard not to obey them still

staying at home in private space

neither visiting nor visited

but in a hazy miasma

waiting and hoping

that its clouds

will be blown away

before memories fade

like the marks on the ground

as we try to retrace our steps

back to where we once were.

https://www.journalofexpressivewriting.com/post/new-times-for-old