The spotlight on the missing has dimmed, these days—
more than 800,000 dead and 5 million ill,
the fever spike of loss soars ever higher.
Overwhelm has overtaken us.
Of the bereaved, there is no counting.
We have been served up
an alphabet soup of unbearable bitterness,
variant flavors: delta and omicron thick on our tongues.
We measure our days by the grave distance of 6-foot spacing,
masks that reveal our wary eyes
gauging the increasing, bewildering distance
from the time when time stopped to the “new normal” that we do not recognize.
We have learned adaptation and resilience.
We have learned that it is possible to reimagine and reschedule everything
but grief.
May we find our way to Makom, the Place
where tears are seen
prayers are heard
and battered hearts find rest.
