Season of Covid by Nina Gross

Nina Gross is a violist who teaches and performs in the valley. She is a witness, and a writer of poems, dreams, harmonies, complaints, inspirations, explorations, observations, dialogues, songs, and story. A resident of Greenfield, she loves to dance and to improvise, and she tries to meet the moments as they come. 

Season of Covid


Today is the first day of Spring
We remain hunkered down
Groundhogs who have seen our shadow
I write by cell phone light
Cars whoosh by in the morning rain
The heat sounds its fat exhale in the vents
There is clean water in the pipes
And I am alone
In a house collecting dust
Privileged in these waiting days
Plenty of paper
Plenty of pens



I suppose
I suppose we are all talking to ourselves now.
Does anyone else call themselves sweetheart?

Pace Yourself
Pull up socks
Pants next
Then shoes

Yesterday’s sweater
Smell it first.
You can wear it one more day.

Brush teeth, hair,
Keep it simple
No earrings
You set the pace

Hold a steady beat in your mind
Match your heart rate
Slow it down

Sigh—let out the excess air
Breathe in,
Sigh again.

You are carrying more weight than you realize
Invisible weight

You are doing good work
Holding up your end
Take a moment to let that sink in.
It’s ok to sit still.
Allow yourself that latitude

Billions of molecules move
Spinning in spirals
As you sit
The Universe coordinates your breath:

Deepen into the space
The space that holds you
Come full circle to yourself,



For what have we prepared our hearts?
To hide in shadow memories of an idolized past?
Or to seek the light emboldened!

Rebel, rebel, rebel again, my friend!
The cart that once seemed large and sturdy—
Broken down—
A wheelbarrow holding straw
Too small to carry dreams;

The shoes that held you as you scaled the mountain
Too tight now;
The embers of a dying fire giving off hot breath
That tempts you to stay,
To come in closer
To die
Like a moth
Wing tips, burned,
Snuffed in the night chill.

Kick off your shoes;
Release your swollen feet!
Get up and walk the remaining mile.
Rebel, rebel, rebel again.

I’ve been told that when the caterpillar enters the chrysalis stage
It melts into a molecular mush,
like stem cell soup;
and then it all gets rearranged.
This starting from scratch,
This letting go,
This emptying of self,
This chrysalis, it is the perfect vessel
In which we may Re-member ourselves!



For my daughter

It has begun
It’s up to all of US now
The revolution will be televised after all!
A mosh pit, a masquerade, a death sentence.
Will we hold one another up as the body falls?