I’m not a child who sees six weeks
as far away as the moon.
I know that every day melts
into the next, quicker
than butter in a hot pan.
The first spring dissolved
into summer, then fall,
then winter, only to repeat.
One day, this pandemic will be
an event recalled at dinner or drinks.
The scrambling for toilet paper,
Covid hair, classrooms reduced
to little boxes on a screen.
Daily death tolls in the thousands.
The fear of leaving home.
It will all be a memory
I might share years from now
with some young journalist
eager to earn a Pulitzer.
But tonight,
the hours between now
and that promised dawn,
rattle through my bones
like an old box fan, whirring
when, when, when, when.
About the Poem
As the Omicron variant of Covid-19 descends, it feels as if we are back in March 2020 with no end in sight.
About the Author
Jacqueline Jules is a former librarian who now spends her days writing poetry for adults and fiction for young readers. She hasn’t left home much since March 2020. She can be found online at www.jacquelinejules.com