Cut back to December 2019. A poem by Marie O’ Meara

I find my trusty secateurs
Under the ivy plant on my patio
Rusty beyond repair
In a time of Corona viris.
My kitchen scissors must do the job.
Snip, snip the dead growth
on my hydrangea.
Snip the overhanging honeysuckle leaves.
Snip, snip the full blown rose petals.
Snip the long white hairs
straggling my neck.
Snip, snip the black thoughts
overwhelming my brain.
If only my scissors could cut out the vacant
Seat at the Zoom meeting,
clip away the loneliness,
The hours of endless stillness.
Could I cut back to December 2019
When plans were made and life was good
And silence had meaning
Amid the normal noise of everyday?
Come fast again normal days
When only secateurs will cut the roses
And scissors can cut my hair.