Amy Higgins Biding Time

Biding Time

Our abandoned hives rest and wait for us— our lofty auditoriums, our heavenly scented coffee shops, our churches, temples, mosques, skate parks, ice rinks, swimming pools. We hereby forsake them all so that we, not our children only, but we ourselves might gather again and dance in the places we made for that purpose. Sneakers will squeak again on floors soft now with dust. We will polish them again, grow high on waxy fumes. We will fall to our knees and kiss industrial office carpets, so glad to feel their synthetic fibers and work again in cubicles, sipping mediocre coffee in quasi-productive, child-free peace.

Does it surprise you how capably we sit still watch out our windows and wait, so that we with our elders, not our children only, might skip again on public grass, kayak on rivers, dance— three, four generations of flickering, happy shadows at postponed weddings.

We bide our time, too, so we can mourn together our too-soon-gone, our loves.

I Believe . . . in Viral Times

I believe in the sanity of four walls—sanitized, solid, prison-like, formidable.

I believe in release for good behavior and an apple for your trouble.

I believe in Morning Prayer that rises from my bosom like a sightless dove.

I believe that snow will cover me once again, morning after morning, as I melt away.

I believe I once knew a lot, but then was eclipsed by age and incurable maladies.

I believe cynicism and mistrust take the place of rational thinking and raucous depression.

I believe we face ourselves in the mirror every day, childlike, masked against demons,

cloaked in angry denial against death. I believe our fractured faces howl in the darkness.

I believe Soul wants out, but viral clouds, yellow and musty blind her eyes to gratitude.

I believe we open our eyes every night to dream and see nothing but data

and modeling and clowns. I believe when we wake the sun,

who’s been there all along, will pierce the window of our heart and let us see.

Tides

Waves, do you get tired Sloshing new in, old out Ripple, disperse, futile.

Tides, do you get dejected Ripped from settle by Moon High, low, restless.

Sand, do you get weary Subjected to wrath of storm Weathered, whisked, repose.

Shells, do you get lonely Discarded by your creator Hardened, used, tossed.

Coming Home

I can still hear the beeps and buzzers and the whoosh of air being driven into and sucked out of me—all in the name of a breath.

Numbers reel in my head—pulse ox, sed rate, BP, blah, blah, blah. They all mean I am still alive and under the control of machines.

Now I swallow silence. It has no more taste than cream-of-anything soup, and produces the same amount of gas. My bodily functions speak for me.

My partner tries to brighten the room, perhaps flood lights would make me less sallow, a pink scarf thrown over the lamp helps cast a rosy glow.

So here I sit, accomplished in my posture, they say. Getting up a sign of vigor and ambition. It used to be natural. Now I get a gold star.

Food could be made of cardboard or old socks. My palette has left me along with the soles of my feet— neither survived as I did.

The trip to the car, in a mandated wheelchair caused a ruckus among the nurses, who I knew by name, rank and shift. They clapped

as if life had returned in a passion play, with me in the lead role, saying my lines, swallowing my fear, praying as I’d never prayed before—and to God this time.

My front door that I hadn’t seen in months was heavier than I remember, the window smaller, the door knob dark. It was a gaping hole

into a world so changed by the storm within me, that it needed paint and spackling, music and art, a kiss for luck and an incantation to the gods of well-being and harmony.

The Wind Carries

The mourning dove plays that song I like in exchange for seeds I will be in the present moment feeling too much and then I will be gone— loosed like a balloon in a parking lot

I will be your friend always I will be someone you meet years back I will be myself for so long and sometimes so myself it hurts Then I will recede I will be borne ceaselessly into a night with green light outside my window When I can’t sleep, I will perch on the windowsill and be so small again feeling, again breathing in another dimension, I must learn a new language that can only be spoken to a screen All this time and technology and yet your voice on the phone is a crackling shadow of itself

I will be okay with the birds building a nest outside my window, even when they wake me before dawn, even when they steal my hair I will be gliding through time like a bullet train and also somehow stagger into its stony edges, dashed to pieces

This month cocooning, I will be wrapped and unraveled I will be talking to myself like I am you and you are safely gathering wings around yourself I will be skeptical of concepts like hope and the wind I will be taken by them anyway

Illusions

A terrifying virus rides on the back of Death. In this pandemic, both are everywhere, one the handmaiden to the other. The Covid-19 virus is invisible, as flexible as water, random, without mercy. Globally, it has swathed millions of people. Death often strikes soon after.

In Chicago: Parents take their sons Charlie and Henry on a bike ride.

All must wear helmets strapped under their chin.

Nanny and Papa, masked, bring presents for Henry’s 5th birthday, push them 6’ to him with gloved hands.

In Ann Arbor: Parents hasten to the bedside of Vivi, 4, crying because of the thunderstorm’s booms and flashes.

“Everything will be all right, Honey. The storm will pass soon.” "Stay with me Daddy!”

In Indianapolis: Vivi’s Grandmother makes cloth masks for her Michigan family.

Vivi’s other Grandmother brings Nitrile gloves, hand sanitizer, and more masks.

Covid-19 sabotages these efforts to protect. Death waits beneath these illusions, like a cat switching its tail.

We watch in horror as the world we knew is upended, and the life-consuming, soul-snatching world which comes after arrives.

My Own Pet

In deference to the pandemic I have become my own pet. I eat and poop and pee, and once a day I take myself out for a walk in the woods. If I see other humans when I am out in the world I keep myself away from them. They say that I don't bite, but you can't be too careful. Apparently I am spoiled: I get way too many treats, and at home I just eat and sleep and play with all my electronic toys and try to learn some new tricks, even though I am an old dog. And, with some resistance, I occasionally get a bath.

Looking at the World from Behind the Glass

An office in the guestroom A desk in the corner Where morning light joins me In the blue glow of a screen My new window to the world

Time, voices, faces, feelings All now one-dimensional and flat Reading and re-reading a sentence Typing and re-typing a word Time stops

On the other side of the glass Not the computer screen -- the window A redwing blackbird, his red epaulets puffed Struts around a seemingly indifferent mate A sharp trill And the second hand of the clock begins to move again

Behind Closed Doors

Behind closed doors our neighbors are more a mystery than ever. Before we had a glimpse of them as they came and went carrying briefcases and back packs. Same time everyday in scrubs with cups of coffee and lunch bags; others in jeans and hardhats. Did we ever take the time to learn more about them or just their schedule?

But now we only see then behind the window glass or in masks if they venture to the mailbox or to gather up the newspaper. Behind closed doors what fills their days? What kind of schedule do they keep if any? Somehow we wonder about their lives in ways we never did before.

And we wish them good health both selflessly and selfishly. And we question if they think the same about us.

When will we see the light?

From getting up at 8am in the morning To sleeping at 8am in the morning From spending the day talking to friends To getting through the day laying on beds.

How the times have changed. When will we see the light?

From wanting the day to not end To waiting for the day to end From spending the day enjoying To getting irritated and screaming

Look what the pandemic has done When will we see the light?

But though there is bad in the good, There is always good in the bad. We got to test our abilities And now are prepared for obstacles

Look what the pandemic has done When will we see the light?

To answer this question, A simple and sweet answer exists The World isn’t dark as people think Look around, you will find beauty and light everywhere!