Behind the moon

A poem about a virus that distracted humanity

Photo by Vizerskaya

Hark—Who goes there?
Is it a Lover or a Saint?
Is that You, God,
That hides behind the lit trees?

The jingling leaf.
The breeze that left Your lips
The flying viruses to and fro
As if that were the show.

I know You’re there.
I hear Your voice.
I feel Your presence
Above the noise.

We are captive
To Your shenanigans.
But not blind
As You run into the night.

Don’t leave!
Don’t leave me to my supposed sanity
When all I ask
Is that You bless humanity.

Hark—Who goes there?
In the middle of the night?
I see You Hide behind the moon
And the summer starlight.

Gotcha!