Heather Banks’ most recent poem to appear here was “Late Snow” (January 2019).

Strange Pandemic Spring
By Heather Banks

Such a strange, disordered spring.
Lilacs and spirea due to decorate graves the end of May
bloom fragrantly like mad in early April
along with vinca, grape hyacinths, and late daffodils.
Raucous quince with their peculiar flowers from the base
compete with neon yellow tips on forsythia blades
already, oddly, almost past.

I shouldn’t have to mow my lawn
the last week in March.
But this year, all the neighbors are home
and closely watch, whether sequestered or
as they singly walk the lane with or without dogs.

Only electron microscopes capture
the spiky novel virus that paralyzes the life
we knew only weeks ago
that seem like eons. Nor do we know
when climate or our brief, contracted lives
will reset to some new normal.

The sun and breezes, too soon active this topsy-turvy season,
belie the slowing of our frantic lives.
While we can, we ramble, breathe deeply
this spring’s sequences and excesses,
have time to listen to warblers and woodpeckers.
Over geographic and electronic distances, we order goods, pay
bills while we can, and try like children to play
endlessly at Game of Life, Monopoly, or checkers.