When the bottom dropped out, nobody knew how to free fall.
No leader could offer direction or directions. We had to find our ways alone.
Previous comforts were banned; hugs and hand holding weaponized.
We reluctantly released each other into separate bubbles of angst and anger. Even grief could not be shared.
The ether offered some connection, but a virtual tether cannot be touched.
Maps misled and compasses whirled, unable to settle on any cardinal point.
One day, driving aimless on a familiar road that no longer went anywhere, I passed a newly plowed and planted field.
The straight and even rows, previously ignored, became an anchor in the sea of uncertainty I was attempting to escape.
Tiny green shoots told a tale of hope for the future—despite the worst, things continue to grow. In sensible rows, farmers will organize the world.
My obscured parachute opened and I felt a quick tug of hope. I steer in the direction of clarity, still floating but hopeful I will land on my feet.