Not unlike needed caresses or gentle kisses,
the morning sun did bathe my upturned
face in needed glow of restorative warmth.
An encouraging respite after weeks of clouds
and cold rain to lift my flagging spirts,
supported and enhanced by the celebratory
songs of a plethora of birds, all this perhaps
the shining moments of glory in my entire
self isolated day.
One day out of the 322 days, 7,728
hours of my self isolation time served.
Doing time having done no crime.
With more to come, when one must
seek out those special simple uplifting
events. These little moments in time
that can feed and nourish our souls,
maybe even keep us sane in this time
of plague upon the land.
My hands still remember the quiet aching of these wounds — too deep and wide for stitches and shaky hands. And so, I never learned to unpack my grief. It still is in a suitcase with December dusks and dreary summers — shut in secret library walls. I never learned to unpack my grief because I'm terrified that when I do, it'll be way too messy to place it back where it belongs.
Some things, we never tell ourselves out loud.