On March 22, 2020, I awoke at 5:00 a.m. and wrote in a new spiral notebook with an OptiFlow pen. It was Sunday. I had spent the previous week turning my home into a homeschool, where I taught my two first graders and a friend’s third grader. Everything I did as a writer was pressed to the sides.
North Carolina wasn’t on a mandatory Stay at Home order but my family already lived under the guidelines. I was exhausted and overwhelmed but I decided to squeeze time out of nothing and start writing a daily poem. As a mother of twins, I’ve squeezed time before. As a writer, I needed to hold a piece of my creativity while I became consumed by the dramatic shift in daily life.
On March 27, 2020, Governor Roy Cooper issued a statewide Stay at Home order through April 29. I decided to continue writing and posting daily through the executive order. Although he extended the order until May 8, I chose to stop my daily poem on April 30. The initial Stay at Home had expired and it was the last day of National Poetry Month. A nice neat ending, and time to move onto something new.
Gallery of Coronavirus Daily
Writing and immediately sharing was new for me–I needed something new! I didn’t want to write just for me; I needed (to use a friend’s metaphor about writing) to throw a thread into the shared chaos. We were in this together. Whether we realize it or not, we are always in it together. The pandemic simply shed light to that fact.
Whenever or whatever brought you to these poems, I hope you are well. If your spirit is low, I hope I can uplift you in some way. I’ll keep my candle lit.
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March 2020
this morning; worms
aggregate the soil.
Rain doesn’t fall–
there’s no need–
the cleansing has begun.
over thousands of years
to make way–there is no end
though the end draws near. We wash
each day our dirt
again and again
and again
we wake and sweep the front porch.
my teeth–I want to bite
the world’ ills into pieces
and brush them into the mulch.
All I can do
is let go, massage my jaw,
pick splinters from my gumline
and no nothing, like emptiness
inside a bucket
as it’s carried to the well.
tough and brittle, tossed
aside, picked up,
submerged and heavy–
a chrysalis, a heart chamber, a couch
the playground
where feet
grip my back
to climb.
I hold each breath
fold goodness into seeds
press them into the soil.
My yard is a garden
of the field it once was–
rows of corn
turned households
forced into fallow season.
you are close, I can see you.
In the room, the fertile ground
is dormant from age–
a streak of fire, a flash, a smile–
a green shoot pokes up,
I see it from the window
but can’t remember its name.
when I learned
to let the mud settle–
my shrunken footprint
expands my output–
I am not a ripple in the water.
lights out, my heart
skips a beat.
I’ve built a place
within this space where I cry
for those whose homes
are not a refuge.
I don’t know how to be here
in this security, how to keep
my mind from despair–
I dig holes, spread wildflower seeds,
pick locks one door at a time.
purple moth; enjoy the season
of their lives. Here, I sit
in the same chair, at the table
with the coffee ring.
It’s not unlike a holiday.
It’s nothing like vacation.
I routine myself thin
to control what I can–
new pathways build
in my young boys, our walls
transform into launch pads,
some things cannot help
but to grow.
in my yard, reach into the well
where I don’t live paycheck
to paycheck. Dig deeper,
we say at home, as we draw
from the marrow of our singular
histories–to thrive is to repeat
like every slow intake of breath,
like each dip into the well quenches
and strengthens the soil
from slipping away.
