We stood at the end of the world,
and stared long and hard.
But everything appeared strangely still:
No bloodied bodies, no mangled corpses, no flames to lick them and swallow them whole.
the grass beneath us
with every sunlight beam
spun in delight,
curving itself to reach the clouds.
So, we let it feed on our swords and pitchforks,
let them grow moss like wigs atop their heads,
and returned indoors.
But even still,
we are fighting.
Some mornings
the dressing gown is tied so tightly,
it is more noose than negligee.
Some afternoons
the dining table is laid so neatly,
it is more confinement than contentment.
And in the evenings,
when clocks become a glaring reminder
of all those hours that have been held hostage,
it is harder to push forward into
another twenty-four.
But even still,
we are learning.
Learning to let the hours sit with us in the bath,
and merge together
like a watercolour painting.
Sometimes, the only colour I see is grey.
But today, I think
I may have seen a
hint of green creep its way up through the bubbles,
as the grass stretched itself through the windows
to come say hello.
Comissioned by Medical Students COVID-19 Outreach for their online fundraiser:
poetpri 