People used to tell me, “Lucky, You Live Hawaii.”
Back in the day,
when I was battered and bound in wedlock.
And I would half-smile
Nod my head,
My younger life was a mixed bag.
I could write a book on isolation.
Now, I am the homeowner
in southwest Florida, a reversal from living at Moms in New York.
And Mom is sitting on the recliner, reading her book.
She’s been there since October.
We are both over sixty.
I think of my 89-year-old Mom,
the woman who brought my two sisters and me
into this world,
her casino luck
has seen it all.
Mom is the definition of love.
I am but one glimmer in her small cosmos.
My atomic number is seven billion, billion, billion.
The nucleus, protons, and electrons are swirling now
like leaves on a blustery December day
I watch the crows mating, bending
Air, like the Masters of Aviation that they are.
Their coupling plays out in front of me, as I tread water, churning out
my “Poem A Day.”
I consider whether it is better to run the vacuum instead.
My mind slowly races over current events,
What to do about the rusty bicycle outside, the reappearance of COVID,
and the lack of affordable medicine. Cutting my sense of fair play like butter
The illusion of control
in a world gone gray and scruffy.
The dissolving bubble of isolation
that surrounds us,
The lowered safety nets, my various states of calm terror,
And Mom’s expectant gaze as she calmly asks what’s for dinner,
reassuring me once again that this too shall pass. One faint hope that
Life will resume. We will sit and noodle float at the pool again.
Cornelia DeDona 12-29-25
Corney Press 