February 22nd, 2021

Whale fluke

This fits.

Not my words in this blog, for once:

You’re not imagining it, nobody seems to want to talk right now.
Messages are brief and replies late.
Talk of catch ups on zoom are perpetually put on hold.
Group chats are no longer pinging all night long.

It’s not you.
It’s everyone.
We are spent.
We have nothing left to say.
We are tired of saying ‘I miss you’ and ‘I cant wait for this to end’.
So we mostly say nothing, put our heads down and get through each day.

You’re not imagining it.
This is a state of being like no other we have ever known because we are all going through it together but so very far apart.

Hang in there my friend.
When the mood strikes, send out all those messages and don’t feel you have to apologise for being quiet.

This is hard.

No one is judging.

— Donna Ashworth
Cartoon Chris

Now my own poem, this one about spiders

I like adding to the poetry in the world, in my own way, so:

Spiders in the Home
by Christopher Walsh, 2/17/21-2/22/21

I wave to spiders.
They've earned the wave:
They quietly add to the net good of a place,
Finding corners, ceilings and overhangs where they spin and weave
And wait.
Eventually, they feed.
Meantime: beauty and symmetry in their webs,
In themselves,
— an alien symmetry those of us with two legs may find surprising
But beauty and symmetry nonetheless.
They even have personalities:
Maybe you'll see them.
At least, you'll see them travel,
Sometimes fast,
In rooms far bigger to them than us.
I look out for spiders
(Moving them, occasionally, when needed)
Then wave,
Pretending they and I can relate.

© Christopher Walsh, 2021. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.