Photo by Andrea Ferrari (aferrari@stamry.edu.ar)

 

Social Isolation, nothing new to me; yet
One of the effective rules to
Stop spreading COVID-19, and more.

On my trip to the post office,
I meet an x-neighbor and learn her daughter’s
Death two years ago.
I gawk, shocked; she was my daughter’s childhood friend.
“She had a brain cancer,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Now, I take care of her children.”
We continue on chatting. Then we hug,
Before parting, breaking the rule of
Keeping six-feet distance from each other
Not to spread the coronavirus–
We know we should not break the rule.

On my way back home, I stop by the warehouse,
Look for toilet paper, hand sanitizer, found none,
but a single pack of Baby Wipes.
I grab it.
Turning back, I drive along the countryside,
Inhale the cow-manure-tinted breeze,
Rustle of silk-skirt of the maid of Spring,
Her breath balmy.

On the path by the field, freshly plowed
And pulsates in anticipation,
A young mom carries, in her arms, her baby,
Two little girls and a dog skip along, carefree.
Somehow I know the wings of the pandemic
Will fall, soon.
And our lives will spring back.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

When the Pandemic Brings a Hope

When the dark tendrils of
Coronavirus creeps ’round,
Choke ones weakened,
       Drag away them ground,
Webbing, growing,
Weeds wild.

In the amid panic,
A forgotten friend clicks “Like”
               On my post on Facebook,
Brings the ancient memory,
Like the lovely flower at the brook.
I send her message,

How she was.
“Getting old.” A smile-image tells all.
“Come on over for a tea,”
                 I offer, to begin with small.
“Remember the social isolation rule.”
In sad realization, I text her:

“When this is over let’s get together.”
“Sure thing.”
The old animosity, dead,
               And one knows everything
Will be just fine. Friendship bounces anew
                In the days of threatening.

 

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wrong Method 

 He throws a brash word
To touch her wings of mind,
She tosses it away like rind,
He laughs at her,
She scorns,

He tramples amok in her garden
Of her brainchild,
She deletes his image beguiled,
He is the vanished word
In the page of life.

Wishes him for better luck
Where angels’ tear drops
Bloom for him to pluck.

*A man in my town used to suggest I divorce and marry him.
He is brash and scornful about me being a writer. I rejected
him, of course. And I wished him for better luck with other
woman who is angel-like for him. To curve what sounds
a harsh part, I added some fun rhymes to the poem.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Talking River Review has accepted my poem “On the Same Hill.”
It will be published in the issue 48 of the Review. Thank you editors
at the Review for choosing my poems.
Talking River Review is the journal for the Lewis–Clark State College,
in Lewiston, Idaho. I’m exited to work with them in the days to come.

–Byung A. Fallgren

Here is the link for The Weekly Avocet for this weekend.

The Weekly Avocet – #379

Hydrangea Pruning

Vintage hydrangea inattention bent
Stressed reproducing multiple blossoms
Weeping with seeds for offspring
Relief would come with winter sleep.

Flower-heads are crumbled dust
Leaves have long since shred
The bush now a dormant skeleton
Ready for restorative operations.

I start to cut with caution.
Snap the white sapless stems
Remove age damaged stalks at the base
Unravel entangled branches.

I stand back to assess the essence
Observing natural growth patterns
Discarding superfluous extensions
Pruning just above healthy buds

A shorn skeleton now a sculpture
Stands ready for seasonal adornment
Fed with liquid gold compost
Mulched to ensure moisture retention.

The hydrangea would resist demise
But will excel with attention
Regrowth will burst exuberant
So too, will the sculpturing gardener.

Suzanne Williams – St. Michaels, MD – suzyww@gmail.com