Psalmists and prophets celebrate in verse;
use all mediums to assume a shepherd's voice.
Protective, warning, directive,
we stand and deliver where we are.
Poet's remove narratives, images, thoughts, and feelings
from people's hearts and minds and breath,
transfuse us all with new ones by turning a phrase.
A dialogue of love in an age of pandemic and climate change
broadcasts itself
throughout all isolated dominions of light;
deep into the rockier ranges of lockdown fevers
where darkness swallows us alone,
and where routine
strains all relationships inside four walls multiplied
by however many rooms we have,
dividing us by rooms we have not,
penned as we already are with or without wine,
or more than another for company,
food already at hand, or not,
eating together shareable in virtual communion,
help needs discovered and dealt with by performatives.
For poets to silence,
the page is left with only what's been written,
living voice reduced to what's been said.
Not using all mediums to say what needs to be said now
leaves time unsung for others to have noted, or heeded.
The reverberations of words are resonance chambers for emanating hope and defiance.
Without access to this now's living Wurd;
without some medium of exchange from voice to ear,
from pen to page, from type to print,
or from ions received by our electronics across interwebs,
we cannot entrain our words to hear and eyes to see or
wills to find common livable futures.
Our ability to endure together the particular adversities that we
are each dealing with alone in all our nuanced and myriad ways, is what
ensures we can continue to develop the collective patterns of utterance and reception
in which we will otherwise be lost to one another.
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