The Summer I Spent Alone
A sonnet about one hundred and fifty days of self-isolation
A crisis. Havoc. All at once, alone.
Advice defined, doors sealed, the virus raged.
When ‘shy’ is default, silence feels as home,
Forlorn relief; to others, ragged cage.
The cries of summer seep in, proud and deep.
Bird songs, wind falls, shrill chimes of virtual calls
Are signals, rousing me from peaceful sleep.
Alive it seems, reprieve before the fall.
One hundred fifty days sans human touch;
A soundless summer season, shining gloom.
Up, eat, stretch, cry and find a show to watch
To forget the suffocating cell room.
Strategic distance bears greatest weapon,
Yet too much space, a slow-burning poison.