Love in the Time of Corona

I write of melancholy, by being busy to avoid melancholy.
— Democritus Junior

And now we're alone in this handful of rooms
With our first born and a mess
Of animals—most of which we planned,
And had names lined up like canned
Vegetables in our pantry–and the best
We can hope for now is to outlast the bloom

Of this disease. We were surprised
Again that Spring broke into our yard
While we looked the other way
—Bright green bursts against the endless gray
Bulk of thunderheads—and filled our cart
With rice and oats, just in case, because Christ,

This could get ugly. There's an art to making
It through. Somehow the pear tree is flush
Again and the cardinals returned to fret on our garden
Wall—How we missed them and their ardent,
Tuneful gush
Reminding us to rise from our quaking—

To preside over this half-acre. For us it's been less art
Than science—A morning experiment: I open the blinds
While you flick on the lights room by room. I let the dog out
And back in. Then we plan to do it all again in reverse. You'll urge the doubtful
Beast into the dark while I work my way, room to room. By the time
I'm through, you'll have already done your part

To keep the night out. And in between we wait.
For the pan to heat, for coffee to brew,
For the screaming to subside. For our child to go to sleep. We put our hands
On each other to remember that we're animal. And we stand
In each room naming things—this is called cotton, this is a roux.
This is A Love Supreme. This is The Dead. We played this one at your Grandmother's wake.

It's one of her favorites—like we planned to take
These weeks to introduce our daughter, breathless
with excitement, to popcorn in a jar. To the piano, and, oh, how she sings
And sings and sings
Until she finally falls asleep—this incredible weight—curled on my chest.
What else can we do until the fever breaks?

Many thanks to Lisa Russ-Spaar for the prompt.