My bamboo forest. Shades can be up at all times in living room as no one can see in and I cannot see out into the everlasting high desert sun and nondescript apartment across from me.

Covid-19, in addition to sickening and killing us, could be classified as a bipolar disorder, couldn’t it? The highs and lows, ups and downs…. Day before yesterday, I was strong and positive, saying to my friends ‘here’s how we come out of this better than we went in.’ Today I’m sick (not Covid-sick, just regular sick) and doubting.

When my powerful-persona has the upper hand, I do things like put up notes that say, ‘must do everyday—something that always makes us happy.’ It always makes me happy to write so here I am, 5am Sunday morning, writing. With nothing worthwhile to say—being sickish and ‘low.’

What about a poem? My friend Bob and a Coursera poetry class aroused a latent interest in poetry a few years ago, which means there’s something to turn to when words and other books fail. So I went to the lithub website and The 32 Most Iconic Poems in the English Language to make it easy to capture something of this morning’s mood.

Being determined to prevent the evil virus from stealing too many hours of my last vital years (and a little fearful of just that on many mornings) I thought to once again share Dylan Thomas’ Do not go gentle into that good night.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light