As spring hangs on the tips of every branch,

verdant green stalks shooting through mud, 

tight buds on the brink of bursting open,

And the skies aswirl with storms of a passing season, 

There is a dense and unrelenting darkness  

 

Like the deep sleep of winter — 

Crowding, pressing, pushing

Us to stillness,

We pull our protective afghans

Up to our chins. We hunker down.

 

Still, wounds and ills need tending, 

Shelves need stocking,

Envelopes must be slipped through mail slots everywhere.

Trash cans wait roadside to be emptied.

There are children to be fed,

Bathed, and read to. 

There is learning that must continue.

 

Loneliness cannot be left to fester, 

The faint hum of life itself must be 

mustered along

To grow strong and stronger still

Until this virus of body and soul 

Is trapped and sapped of power. 

 

So look to the helpers . . . 

The doctors, the nurses, custodial staffs, 

Lab technicians who test each swab.

Mail carriers and store stockers, 

Grocery store cashiers who ring up every purchase,

And the pharmacist — God bless them all. 

 

Bless the teachers and tutors 

Crafting long-distance lessons for homeschoolers,

Neighbors checking in through windows and 

closed doors . . .  

Rabbis, imams, pastors, and priests

tending to parishioners who used to sit

In now empty sanctuaries. 

Their prayers live-streamed 

in these days of isolation and shelter. 

Be thankful for all of these. 

They plant the seeds of hope.