The world looks less rosy when observed from inside the house, even given small excursions for groceries, meds, etc. We start to realize what cabin fever is about.
In historic perspective this is what winter was about for many people in the temperate zones. We have become less adept in entertaining ourselves and are easily bored by television and radio and the internet. Our electronic codependency has us feeling benighted when we aren't given fresh pablum.
I look at this is a chance to hone some of my writing skills. Including those of observation. With less ADD events swirling I am able to pay more undivided attention to things I always want to do, but don't find time.
That in mind here are two poems about just this:
This
day,
once more
stay at home.
The timeline expands
until days become meaningless.
Brown drips on coffee cup morph into surreal art,
small details eat concentration,
the world shrinks inward.
Each moment
is its
own
sphere.
Now
we
await
a lifting
of the movement ban.
Rejoice for new discoveries
are hidden in the mundane we view in close detail.
Thoughts normally gallop by—
now move frame by frame
capture them
to use
at
will.
Our days are held together by pillars, like a portico. Awaking, breakfast, lunch, supper, bedtime mark the waking hours. The night is an unmarked journey into the unknown of the subconscious.
We exist from one pillar to the next. It is like driving down a long stretch of deserted highway as we await the next landmark and pray it will come soon. Such is the boredom of isolation that is called shelter at home and social distancing.
The morning has come
decide, arise or sleep in.
Do I need to dress?
Breakfast and the news
leisurely coffee for hours.
Some chores before lunch.
Noon is time for lunch.
Afternoon nap or space out.
Think about supper.
Tasks of daily life
recurring mundane actions
supper starts the eve.
In this there hides contentment
since griping will never help.