This is the Time
(for Victoria Anne)
Good night and goodbye to all that is lost
and gone forever.
Good morning and good fortune to all
that still remains.
This is the meanest of times, the one
that will not say its secret name, forcing
our imagination to visit all our secret places
where our demons live and the dragons
that horde away our contentment
as if it was the stolen wealth
of a thousand great kings.
This is the time of stolen innocence.
This is the time when all our flowers die,
except that hardy bastard, our own impatiens.
This is the time when we cannot imagine
seeing another human face again,
and feeling the strength and warmth of their hug.
This is the time that we struggle
through, a discontented time of disjunction.
This is the time when hope is as wilted
as the wet and rotting leaves in our deserted streets.
This is the time when we climb a mountain
covered in soft and powdery snow.
This is the time to guard against despair
and to treasure our hope, such as that remains.
This is the time to guard against encroachments
and incursions that could steal away
some essence of our lives that we
came to thoughtlessly assume we’d never lose.
This is the time, as the prophet said long ago,
“Strengthen the things which remain,”.
This is the time to be sure not to allow
our last vestiges to slip from our tired fingers.
This is the time to read the books, think the thoughts,
write the words, and determine the way
we should go that may flower and bear fruit
in season.
This is not the season of hibernation, of sleep,
unless it’s to dream the great dreams of the just,
of the lovers, dreamers, poets and prophets.
The great dreams gentle revolution.
This is the time to be reborn, a butterfly
from our former caterpillar.
This is the season of considered hope.
Soon we will greet the new morning
in the warmth of the sun.
Soon we will shout a cry of victory, pick up our broken pieces,
and live.
A poem for the rising despair of the Pandemic of 2020
