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Abstract

="9d68">we smile. We gather seed</p><p id="4917">for our birdhouse in progress</p><p id="5206">that we are still figuring out how to build</p><p id="9ff7">out of a milk jug and art supplies.</p><p id="32b0">We wait for our mourning doves -</p><p id="141e">Margaret and Jonathan - to return.</p><p id="8171">Their flight, their freedom</p><p id="a5db">is always devoted to and just as important as their</p><p id="d2be">coming home.</p><p id="c0bc">©<a href="https://medium.com/@jennyjustice">Jenny Justice.</a> All Rights Reserved.</p><p id="b73c"><b><i>Jenny Justice</i></b><i>, Poet. Author of Love in the Time of Climate Change and Reveal. You can read more of her poetry at<a href="https://medium.com/justice-poetic"> Justice Poetic.</a></i> <i>Sign up for her newsletter <a href="https://jennyjustice.substack.com/p/coming-soon?r=2jhb2&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email&utm_source=copy">here</a></i>.</p><div id="5756" class="link-block"> <a href="http

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Pandemic Sunday

A Poem

It’s the day that still feels like itself.

The day of rest. The day to be blessed.

The day to write and read, and read and write.

The day that flows. The day that goes

as fast as every other day now, in this, but Sunday

always has had that quality, flying by

as we roam from room to room

as we stand on the balcony looking out, looking down,

and watch our neighbor’s

daffodils bloom so happy and so yellow,

we smile. We gather seed

for our birdhouse in progress

that we are still figuring out how to build

out of a milk jug and art supplies.

We wait for our mourning doves -

Margaret and Jonathan - to return.

Their flight, their freedom

is always devoted to and just as important as their

coming home.

Jenny Justice, Poet. Author of Love in the Time of Climate Change and Reveal. You can read more of her poetry at Justice Poetic. Sign up for her newsletter here.