Breathing Space

We bend, grasp, pull

the dried remains

of Black-eyed Susans

on the first warm day

of Spring. The work is hard—

the Sues are invaders, after all, 

rampant, beautiful but wild. 

I lose myself in the task, 

the brown earth clings to my hands,

beads of sweat dampen my forehead. 

Bend, grasp, pull. 

For the first time in weeks, 

I am not all-consumed by that other invader,

the one who lurks six feet away

wearing the guise of friend, family, stranger. 

I am not riveted to the talk-box

with its dire warnings of peaks and curves, 

shortages and lotteries. 

I am not fear-focused 

on whether my meager supply 

of wipes and sanitizer will last

through the battles ahead. 

I am not obsessed with worry 

over the man toiling beside me—

my beloved husband

with three pre-existing conditions.

I am bend, grasp, pull. 

I am just a woman, doing yard work. 

Grateful for this respite.