The new reality has put each of us into a bubble. Some are obvious or essential members of the exclusive container. Judgment is required. Judgement of risk, and of trust. I'm old, and it seems to me to be a more familiar decision than one would expect. I've had my bubble for some time, and I admit new members with care.
Chosen
In our bubble, overlooking another man’s mown grass,
(Still
bright wet from morning sprinklers)
The
stark dagger of a fir shadow threatens from the south.
I see it all through the iridescent film of our isolation.
The sunlight plays on the lawn
at the speed of the light breeze,
Highlighting
the subtle shades of your eyebrows.
We breathe easily—no one is upwind or down. We are chosen
And we
choose with care with whom to share
The warm
and lambent light that makes it through.
