A Musician Turns 50 in the Age of Covid

No fanfare, no party, no dancing

no new black dress to zip me in

like a second skin,

no rehearsal, no concert, no singing

no chasing down last minute music,

no waving my arms in the Square

to a posse of nine to twelve year olds

distracted by tinsel and real life reindeer,

no hearing Jingle Bells sung

with more gusto than accuracy

for the umpteenth time.

For the first time

since primary school

since picking up an instrument

at the age of six, my birthday

is mine alone for silence or song

as I choose

and I choose hill and sky.

I choose to fill my lungs

with champagne air, replenishing

until my cup runs over, letting my voice

spill out, caught

on a winter wind, carolling

the air. This year

I sing in solitude

casting my melody out

onto an empty sky, a lark

riding the swell, an oasis

in a desert of silence, a gathering place

for when we sing together again.