Back to basics, then,
to when sound was crickets,
or surf, or the huffff of a startled deer
in the edge of the woods, or wood burning
in the old woodstove or in an open fire-pit at ocean’s edge,

Back to the cold crispness of the morning air
through the open window of your youth,
sun shielded only by thin cotton curtains hanging there,
and you, nestled in comfort of hand-made quilts,

Back to the basics of water, hand-pumped,
or trickling out of a groundswell of springs,
or cascading over rocks or boulders,
downstream, sparkling in sun, misting in rain,
damp on your face lifted to receive, to taste,
to drink deeply on a hot day—

Back to earth, then, earthed, driven back
by despair, and fear, and loneliness,
and a TV full of hurt. Go,

Back one step, outside the door, or
into memories, or Mystery, but only
to the real world of home, to a lovely,
loved, magical place, where, however I otherwise am,
I can open myself and my senses to this, all this
that is basic, to This, always,

Beyond pandemic.

Glenda Taylor, December 2020