I was putting on my watch (yes, I still wear one!) and I noticed with embarrassment how much more girth my wrists, which were once tiny, now have. It is not a part of my body that I often consider in this way.
I was also thinking about how everyone is simply exhausted after two solid years of COVID. And we can’t seem to see the light for the darkness. This is not what we expected to happen, and we are always disappointed, when we don’t get what we expected.
Here, in our part of Florida, it’s almost as if we believe that COVID can be conquered by denying it out of existence. But of course we know deep down, that we haven’t licked it, yet.
The constant reminder of our own mortality really takes the wind out of our sails. Especially in a country so utterly enamored by youth and beauty and energy. We just want to enjoy life again.
May the day come soon when we will! Thanks for coming by to read.
It used to be, my wrists
Were just as slim as slim,
I used to be as slim as slim could be.
And I, beloved, more than him,
Not taking so much on the chin:
I miss, I miss the me I used to be.
Tomorrow used to be
A favorite day, for me,
The day I guessed my dreams would all come true.
You used to bounce right in,
And bounce back out again.
You’re weary now: the years are wearing you.
I used to have a chair,
A corner of the room,
A place I could relax and read and write.
My life now, full of tasks–
Unfinished, should you ask–
Hell, they’ll remain unfinished all my life.
What is this wicked wind
Infecting us with grim,
Unyielding prickliness and potent wrath?
Why can’t we see the light?
Grim Reaper, standing right
There in the doorway, blocks the sunshine’s path.
The years, how they attack
Our fortress of haystacks,
Blow them aside–each year, the weather worse.
Where is that me, robust,
Who conquered grime and dust,
And comforted those clinging to my skirts?
So gloomy grows the mold
Of achiness and old,
Upon this dampened quilt, left in the rain.
A patchwork crazy quilt,
With happy threads, in gilt.
How guilty, I, for causing you such pain.
I would have brought it in, if I
Had known that it would rain.
Copyright 2022 Andrea LeDew
Hey Boomer! Want to read a poem about you? Try Space Babies.