The year we languished
came upon us as other times
before the pandemic; it stole
the colors from our canvas
and left us a facade of smiling faces.
Its ennui, the collective affect
that eclipsed the light which was
our path out of the void inside
each of God’s children.
Someone said we ought to call
a rose marred with ugly lines
by its proper name: despair.
But naming a thing, a heaviness
that floods your moments of joy
does not cancel it; for after
this emptiness that lingers
as shallow dreams on the earth,
or as a mirage in our hearts,
may yet appear the phantom call,
another niggling void, barren of the love
that once glistened like freshly fallen snow
on the sunny days we used to know;
sunny days—always beckoning—
and never leaving us unembraced.