The numbers rise. New cases. Death rates. Deaths per 1 million. So do the aruguments. “Government doesn’t have the right.” “It’s no worse than the flu.” “The economy must open.”

All witnessed through screens: the iPhone, the iPad, the Acer in the office overlooking the street. Where a handful of maples unfurl fresh leaves, while the rest stand dormant. The sky above remains gray, the promised afternoon sun yet to appear, after a morning of rain.

Echoes of loneliness arise and fall. Only a friend’s text, or face on a Zoom conference, silence them. It’s a pale imitation of community.

It will have to do.

a conversation

between my wife and her friend

from the other room

fruits of this isolation

spreading like spring weeds

for Tanka Prose on Site’s 18th April 2020 prompt: Gerry Muse #203 (occasional tanka prose) The Isolation