In this pandemic

with feelings worn,
disheveled like the bed
from which I rise each morning,

words evade my mask
these nights and days
as though dead,

they are
to my touch

not heeding
my tears,
my mourning.

In a red sky,
from the southwest,
red sand drifts,

with words ahead.
I will gather the best
of them

like heirloom seeds
for spring planting.

I will dig them
into a blank page,
running horizontal

like furrows
across a garden.