The days go by, some fast, others expand as breath in a balloon; a warp of what space we must need. These are idyllic, and full of talking; voices of doom and death, others of hope and life. We sequester by the beach or wood, in our cities and towns; work on screens, a reaching out to care, walks, foraging for supplies, families wrapped around, not too close. Other people might be lonely or relishing to be alone. Much is on hold, a field of abeyance. Perhaps we see the other side; a new way of being. We wonder how that looks. When do the doors open again that we might work and produce? And yet we hold this time as dear. We will look back and say it was good as well; we rested and so did the earth. Perhaps the entire world should rest for a time each year, allowing our waters and the expanse we call sky to sigh with relief. This; a time to allow our field to lay fallow, its fruit to go back and nourish the earth.