Getting Cold

 

So — singing has been forbidden. It was

the thing we loved best in the beforetimes,

but now we’re all in this alone. Who doesn’t

want to dance again? Is it a crime

to make a little whoopee, make some noise,

make music in the key of solitude?

We never knew how much we’d miss our voices,

the act of shaking hands, sharing food,

touching one another. The months unfold

without rhythm, without sequence, a fever

dream of silence flowing like a herd

of deer over a fence. It’s getting cold.

We didn’t want this. We couldn’t believe

it at first, when it still was just a word.

 

 

© Michael Fleming

Brattleboro, Vermont

October 2020

 

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