I have to admit, I'm getting some fatigue. I guess that's to be expected during normal times, and I suppose during a pandemic too. Most days I'm totally fine, but I find myself just not wanting to do things anymore. Ritual and routine are vital to me, so follow them, go through the motions. Morning writing is one of those rituals. So is daily tidying of the house.
I want to write more and with more depth and complexity and urgency and passion, but I don't know, I'm having trouble channeling that. Maybe once the semester is through and I'm staring at a long, glorious summer ahead. I need to find a new project to get fired up about. Napo has been a nice distraction. But I need direction. I'll find it, soon.
Tidying During COVID-19
This morning smells of bleach
And lavender soap. I make it so:
I wash the sheets each morning
After waking, a ritual to keep
this Eden clean. I snap the wrinkles
from the sheet and lay it on the
bed—it’s bright white catches
the rays of sunlight streaming in
through the window. Even the blinds
can’t keep the springtime light
from streaming in. I close the thick
curtains like eyelids. The wind blows
and carries with it uncertainty.
The mockingbirds chirp a war song
to the grackles, warning them
to stay away from their precious nests,
Their stockpiles of bugs. Inside,
I smooth the sheet on the bed
With my hand, tuck it in the corners
And feel the softness against my palm,
Quell each wrinkle with diligence.
Outside, on the lawn, an uprising
Of weeds that need tending
Wave their blossoms in the air
In protest of something
I can’t quite understand.
Last, I spread the blanket,
Soft and warm and perfect,
A cocoon of Eden I’ll wrap myself in
And lose myself in
Until all of this is over,
And the musky scent of snakes
Blows over with the virus.