These days

I have turned on the radio.
I have turned off the radio.
I have texted.
I have waited.
I have run from screen to screen,
playing the game of panic,
and I have panicked,
unaccompanied,
with gusto and abandon.

I have waited in line outside of the grocery store,
and waited in line inside of the grocery store,
and comforted a woman in line ahead of me,
overwhelmed by dog food,
and weeping because she had lost her mother.

I have rearranged my life,
and also the plants.
I have mended my black sweater with navy blue thread.
I have waited for the mango to warm up on the table,
I have made tea and scrubbed the dishes,
and learned to measure twenty seconds by heart.

I have witnessed a baptism on church Zoom,
and typed prayers into a chat box.
I have made soup with onions and carrots,
which sweetened the broth unexpectedly.
I have looked for apartments with gardens and for other apartments with laundry,
and meanwhile I have approximated the spin cycle
by shuffling my feet in soapy water in the tub.
I have pretended to work.

I have given up on reading,
and on patience for language,
and instead I have stood at my north-facing window,
observing the blue jay in the catalpa tree,
and the cardinal in the paper mulberry,
watched their bodies beat with the effort of their calls,
which I have learned, also,
and noted to myself,
blue jay,
cardinal,
and tried to recall hours later,
as the sun sets, out of view,
somewhere west of this mess of clouds,
pink, at last, at 7 o'clock,
after so many months of darkness.