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Photo Copyright © 2020 by John Robert Lee—socially distanced.

for Ann-Margaret Lim

“To the saints who are in Ephesus.”  Ephesians 1:1

Gospelling yellow-breasts among avocado blossoms,
butterflies cavorting round the rose of Sharon
a clean white flower in the morning
tinged at noon with pink changings,
hummingbirds probing under grapefruit,
hens and chicks foraging brown fallen leaves,
children on this Sabbath chanting hymns from their verandah,
and palm tree like a winged angel under the blue, sparse-cloud sky—

who would think
that pestilence is ravaging our world?

No safe zone on continent or island,
regular routines locked down,
family, friends, lovers masked, distanced,
networks obsessed with flattening curves, death statistics,
churches and mosques closed, except for fanatics,
beaches, bars, brothels shut, except for skeptics
or those who want normal here, now,
and there are us crowding long lines outside shops—

who wrote the script,
who configured this incredible dystopia?

Skies are clearing over megalopolitans everywhere,
Himalayas in view after decades,
I hear canals in Venice and Amsterdam are clean these days;
in neighborhoods under curfew,
wood-doves, various warblers clock quick-passing hours,
crickets, breezes soughing through leaves, are the night sounds,
no backfiring bikes or late-night DJs. Judgement is dropping abroad
from our mouths, our hands—

what unbelievable drama is rolling out behind the scenes,
Who is moving, Ephesians, to centre stage of this cosmic scenario?