I do not write

I do not write
For the New Yorker
Though I read the cartoons
Regularly.
I rarely understand
The poetry
They choose
Though I do wonder
What the poetry editor
Eats
For breakfast.

Not over

As we arrive
Into a new space
Of quarantine
May we continue to find
New ways to connect,
Ways that we ignored
Because all of this
Would surely be over
Tomorrow.
Well it's not
Over.
So it is time
To explore
New ways
To become
Again.

Burning season

Plans change.
Whoever thought things
Would stay
The same?
Whoever thought
The world would stop
Spinning?
Cycling around
The sun?
Things change,
Even on this fragile earth
Our island home
This is Burning Season
In Thailand
Who knew I would end up
With two friends
As missionaries
In Thailand?
Whoever thought
I would have friends
Everywhere
On this fragile earth
Our island home?

When is a routine not a routine?

So many ways
To meet
I sit in my chair
Try to get comfortable
Watch the faces
Lined up
Like the Brady Bunch
Hear the Waltons
At the end
Good night
John Boy
The lights go out
We all return
To our own
Routines.
Even the routines
Are different.
When is a routine
Not a routine?

How to connect

How to connect?
We learn new ways
Every day

Even if someone trips us up
On the sidewalk
Six feet away
We learn new ways.

How to connect?
Different platforms
A smile
A wink
A nod
A picture
From China
We are reminded
We are one
We are one
We forget.
Nevertheless
We connect,

No matter what

Cherry blossoms on the table
They could  not wait
I understand Washington
Celebrates the same
Cherry blossoms
Must bloom
Cherry blossoms bloom
No matter what
No matter the snow
No matter
The indoor virus
No matter
What,

Bloom

The cherry branches
On the table they begin
Their bloom potential.