Daffodils bright, bay and billow,
tulips shiver their cupped radiance,
grass silvers in blasts of wind,
not a soul in the chilling streets.
All this framed for eyes in the shadows,
a steady squall of sleet studied
from an ordered, silent interior;
observed columns of light pass over.
Gaze at stock from depleted stores,
lock your doors, remember wars,
the triumphant march of your people’s history.
Hide alone, commune with ghosts:
the virus is coming.
