When cherry blossoms made snow drifts
and frost still turned the morning grass
sparkling white,
we paused.
We stopped.
We gathered our families close,
held our loved ones,
and interacting with the world moved from hugs,
games of tag,
and cups of tea
...
to laughter
and tears
through
screens
and phones.
Through yellow drifts of pollen
and the greening of the trees,
we held our families close.
The grocery stores were silent.
The roads no longer roared.
We were thankful for the things we had
and worried for those who had less or had loss.
The birds fledged the trees filled with leaves.
The cottonwood fluff flew in the sky.
Gardens bloomed,
extra full
of bright and cheerful colour,
and we still held our families close.
We longed for camping trips with friends,
and BBQs,
joyful screaming children,
birthdays celebrated with grandparents.
We longed for connection
with those we used to see.
We longed for solitude,
quiet, space to be alone.
Yet we tried to find joy in rhythm,
routine,
and sourdough bread.
Some days were better,
and some days were harder.
The unfairness,
the senseless violence,
the racism became so clear
so prevalent
so *accepted* that we couldn't stand by.
There were loud protests,
and quiet ones,
and ones that will blow out like a candle flame,
the selfie and gone type,
as ones that will make slow,
systemic systemic changes.
Too slow.
Our summer brought small adventures,
close to home,
close to nature.
And it was gone in a flash of sunlight through the trees.
Now it's September,
and as a teacher,
and parent,
I am figuring out a new balance,
trying to find joy,
often failing.
Often feeling like I'm never enough,
longing for things I took for granted,
grateful for everything I have,
wondering how I can do more
for those who have less.
Aching for those who have loss.
Wondering,
worrying,
and trying to stop waiting,
to resume living.
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