The construct of time
in our pandemic pause
is such that my computer
now tells me the day —
in small letters the date, too —
and the hours move by
so slowly we seem suspended,
teetering here on trust
that the sun begins the day still,
and the dark is when we rest
and dream of crowds of people
— or that one we adore — before
the sun rises on another day as is
but another day closer, too
and find in that somewhere: Joy.
Right before the world shut down, I was working with photographer Joy Bush to promote her new exhibit at City Gallery in New Haven. We had a phone call scheduled, so I set my phone alarm: 8:50AM, Joy. That’s what inspired today’s poem. You can check out Joy’s thoughtful work on her website: www.joybushphotography.com.