Winter Sun

Winter sun
softly soothes skin.
The harsh summer glare
barely remembered.
Upturned faces feel
the blessing of renewed warmth,
offered with quiet reflection.
Clouds flurry into focus
playing hide and seek,
stealing the sun's heat for themselves,
before evaporating onward.
The streets are silent,
solitary walkers greet each other
as if few inhabitants remain.
The grim virus statistics click over daily
on worldometer,
numbing numbers disallowing true grief,
being beyond emotional comprehension.
One death is a tragedy.
Our human hearts can grasp
that much for right response.
A thousand deaths becomes a statistic.
What about ten thousand,
a hundred thousand, a million?
What do those numbers mean to me?
Each one a precious life,
dearly loved by devastated ones.
The earth groans more clearly now,
as we watch and wait,
thankful we are safe
in our regulated bubbles,
forgetting how different life
was before this year began.
And yet the winter sun on my skin
still feels the same.