I looked for you again in the garden, as I have each year when the light grows long upon the grass, remembering that moment when you lit upon my knuckle, your tatted wings the hue of ripened limes, and eyes like orchid beads, and wondered what you were, what passing phase—youth or age or in between— delivered you to me, and felt your flutters kiss my skin before you floated out of sight, and left me wanting more, as miracles often do.
“—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth’s sleep at all?” (“Futility” by Wilfred Owen)
Your sugar plastic meat free life, your efforts to conserve, preserve environmental health, consumption of some friendly bugs and supplements (because because) and seven hours every night, and exercise, (yes) runs and walks and weights to make you strong and pump your cells with oxygen that keeps you toned, and feeds your brain, which you work more with puzzles, articles in journals and the latest books you load onto devices and devour to stay enlightened, be informed beyond the news you watch each night.
And when the virus hit, you did your part as fiercely as it adapted, and masked and Zoomed and ordered in, and brought meals to your neighbors, wept as family friends got sick and died, attended funerals remotely, brought righteous fury to your ballots while reveling in advances that brought Mars into your home and kept researchers toiling in their labs for a vaccine, the chance to bare your arm, and feel safe again with friends, in transit, stores, one day, one day… (because you’re a believer, dare to hope)
Only to have it all undone, By easy purchase of a gun.