The world is entangled in battle
and finally united: eye-level shelves
are empty, television is on nonstop, we
can’t hug. Every check-out station
is guarded like a salad bar. Our cash
and bags are held with gloves.
Our brains are jammed, stuck
in a whirling wind of images:
On a stanchioned city block,
masked people huddle outside
the hospital. A stern newscaster terms
the troubles. I can’t turn him off.
I’d rather listen while I think alone
in the quiet. Quiet now is less unsettling
than the sounds of a family walking
the dog along the neighbors’ fence,
the neighbors’ dog barking,
a freed-from-winter revving engine,
laughter. Aren’t we to self-contain?
Aren’t we to shelter? Aren’t we
going to be okay? A rising politician
warns and soothes us: Our closeness
makes us vulnerable. But our closeness
is what makes us special, connected,
human, community. I return a call
from last week, back in time to an old
world of planning to plant trees
at my new home, investing. I hardly
expect an answer — is landscaping
essential? — but the design is ready:
My backyard with a few more trees,
more privacy — an idea I’ve guarded
my whole life now changed
by infection and loneliness, by distance,
by density. Just weeks ago, I thought
broadly of the trees as screen —
from walkers, joggers, cyclists, car
passengers — A silver lining, now,
to think more intricately, to foresee
the branches, bark, flowers, leaves.
-Laura Scheffler Morgan 3/27/20
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