Mr. Quarantine

7 O’Clock! Is all well?Church bells bellow on the breeze,The day? I don’t know! The sun climbs higher,Mind adrift, empty calendar,Deafening silence. Toiling at midday,Pitchfork liberates the soil,Body breaking labour. Afternoon aromas,Tending tomorrow today,Bread breaks as it bakes. Evening guitar strings,A wake for another day,Tomorrows…