A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
I pass the post for the Veterans for Foreign Wars, on the San Antonio Riverwalk, where a scattering of people sit at picnic tables apparently waiting to eat, and a country music band is murdering “Forever Young.” It’s the morning after the bombings in Paris, and hearing the music I start to cry. For who will be forever young? Not the towheaded toddlers whose mothers are lifting them up side by side for photographs, cooing “cousins, cousins.” Not the slender jogger in her purple baseball cap and purple socks, not the kids on bikes who swerve around me, nor the Airedale on his leash crossing on the bridge above me, nor the crinkled water lily pads in the little marshland. My heart is old this morning, acknowledging the ends of things. A voice within me murmurs, all you can say is shan’t oh shan’t oh shantih shantih peace peace peace.
Copyright 2015 Ann Fisher-Wirth