To pause a moment in this darker time,
When tiny strands with stealth do take their toll,
Our stories freeze as in a pantomime;
We must call “cut” and freeze the camera roll.
This isolation has us hold our breaths;
We practise distance six feet each from each.
Was that a cough, is that a coming death?
When all is done, what lesson does this teach?
At times like these, the eyes must inward look;
As Gertrude, do we see our “grained spots”
To read the soul, that very private book,
And muse, “Is this our true deservéd lot?”
Has Mother Nature slapped our saucy face?
What must we do to gain once more Her grace?