Our feet get soft; our hearts are on forced leave.
We spend the sunny days of spring inside.
Inside is outside and outside in,
But nowhere is there space enough to grieve.
Our grief creeps into our dreams
Like pre-dawn fog across a glassy lake;
It lingers...it lingers...follows us into the mist of our days
through which we wander, weary and half-awake.
Will the truths of isolation bring us to wake fully one day?
Or will we bury them in history?
Perhaps history will bury us along with our truths,
and future archaeologists will say:
They sheltered in place but were they truly safe?
Even the safe places remain a mystery.