This, the winter and spring of the disease.
It may extend to summer and autumn.
Next winter, too, as leaves fall from the trees.
All the seasons, for the sickness, as one.
Evade, if can, this killer on the loose.
For as long as able, keep my distance.
I will curse it, but no use to traduce.
If I do, it will make no difference.
More seasons yet before there’s a vaccine
to prevent, or treatment reliable.
Until then, hope I’m like an evergreen,
in leaf whenever. That, desirable.
But each season is transformational.
Belief I’ll get through, seems irrational.