By Michael Zweig
Counting the days
of this self-imposed exile
by weeks now.
The anomie of days, and time.
Strange, but was it always that way,
before the exile?
Before the days melded one into the next?
And before each day’s sunset became a sad reminder, of lost dreams and lives?
Yet as I now count weeks, I see and hear more, or differently.
See a grounded lady bug struggling to survive (as I take the time to help it).
Hear the wind across the water.
Marvel as Venus takes her throne in the sky.
Totally mesmerized by the robin, bursting with spring.
Accompanied by the cicadas‘ symphony.
At last, taking the time to exult, and to cry.