A stillborn season is but a season still
What does it matter if it lasts a year
Or ends after a week at will?
And one that flounders is but a season too
Why should we harshly judge its trembling gait
Or gripe that no grapes grew?
Rather than blame the blight and slur the season
I offer thanks for life and reason
Another night has come, another day
Another season dawns
Well, come what may
When I saw your brown leaves
On the sidewalk this morning
I was refreshed
At this mark
Of a nascent fall
When I heard morning mist
Like a cat creeping slowly
I sprang to life
At the sound
Of its gentle footfall
When I got home
For the first time in days
I was able to closely
Consider my face
It had grown weary
From sun’s stolid heat
But through your grace
I still walk on my feet
And my face is grown milder
Like the days of the season
Perhaps for this, too,
There’s a reason
We meet again on our old turf
Where we once used to rule the world
Just years ago, inseparable
Now each of us has gone our way
We have drifted, drifted apart
Our boyhood dreams of sun and surf
Have melted as our lives unfurled
The damage is irreparable
So why should I bother to stay?
My thoughts gave me a start
We started a little virtual choir with some of my friends. It’s called The Unseen Choir and this is our pilot project. It’s a message that we feel needs to be heard at this time especially, when people’s hearts are gripped with fear and anxiety over the COVID-19 situation. May it soothe your soul at this difficult time!
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When Oliver woke up that morning, he could sense something was amiss. For one thing, he felt rested—which never happened. Even more significantly, the only thing coming in through the open window was—silence.
He looked out onto a street full of slumbering cars. It unnerved him.
Finding the remote, he turned on the TV.
“We are potentially all at risk as it is yet unknown how quickly the virus may spread,” the reporter was saying in a cheerful, peppy tone. “The government has therefore declared a state of emergency, banning all citizens from leaving their homes without a face mask.”
While the words were still fading into his consciousness, he heard his phone vibrate—briefly but resolutely.
“Due to present health crisis, all employees are to work from home until further notice. Email communication to follow.”
Although Oliver had occasionally worked from home before, it had never been on his boss’ orders. He looked up from his phone and in a single glance captured the entire living space of his studio apartment. Instantly, something gripped his throat with an ever-tightening squeeze.
“Must go out!” his brain was screaming.
“Must go out!” his legs were pulling him.
“Must go out!” every single cell in his body was chanting.
Pulling on yesterday’s pants and the sweater he’d meant to have washed a week earlier, he tied a bandanna around his nose and mouth and broke out of the confinement of his four walls.
He sped down the stairs and was out of the building in seconds, but didn’t stop running until he reached the park.
Predictably, there were no people around. It was barely ten minutes after seven.
Oliver looked up at the sky—the vast, endless canopy overhead—and felt the grip around his throat relax. He could breathe again. He could enjoy life again: The crazy birds with their boisterous arguments, the air fragrant with nascent spring. It was all there.
He made his way to the pond where the ducks and the moorhens observed their breakfast quietly. But as he leaned over, to get a closer view of this spectacle, he noticed his own reflection and saw the unnatural muzzle. He could have sworn it was beginning to tighten around his face.
His throat closed up again. His nose refused to take in air and his mouth was just gasping and gaping. In a fit of panic, Oliver took to his feet again and did not stop running until he had shut his apartment door behind him.
“Free at last!” he announced jubilantly to no one in particular as he ripped off his makeshift face mask.
His smile soon faded. Here it was again: The same four walls closing in on him.
He looked at his watch. The dial read 7:25. And a voice inside his head came mocking him, “Until further notice.”
It was going to be a long day.
Haunted by the phantom people
Walking round the empty street
The world that frolicked, gamboled, sauntered
Overnight has lost its beat
Lackluster its former glory
Grown dim its once gilded sheen
Bleak, drab, joyless, long forgotten
Yesterday is but a dream
Yet outside the trees are budding
Grass is fresh, the air smells sweet
The world that slumbered, suffered, waited
Overnight has found its beat
James Araucaria 