Fountains

The fountain in my garden died.

The pump gave up its ghost

and I am faced with disassembly

of a 6-foot cement behemoth:

basin upon basin upon basin

containing nothing but last week's rain

which morphed into something 

ghastly green and swamp-like.

This is the metaphor for my pandemic life: stalled,

silent, inoperable; ponderous

and immovable. I am dull and dry,

devoid of sparkle-- and, often

repetitive, repetitive, repetitive:

as stagnant and swampy as that looming garden colossus.

Imagine, however, a new medium: imagine, 

if you can, from the depths of our dark pandemic well,

a reinvention, a purpose, a re-creation.

Plant one foot in pandemic, the other in the possible.

Imagine flowing flowers, streaming from that basin tower... 

Plant them.

Imagine the eruption of art and poetry from this arid, too-quiet time...

Create them.

Imagine that time stood still for these several months

while we caught our breath,

while we found our footing,

while we found ourselves.

Imagine our lives... reimagined..