A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Only days ago the wisteria punched out its blue-white cascades of fragrant, popcorn blossoms. And we saw a Steller’s Jay at the feeder. We are cloistered in our houses dodging a horrible virus but it almost feels like blessing. Possibly, it’s the swatches of time tucked into the spaces between things, room enough to readjust the Stargazers in the vase, or hang more securely the German clock swinging its open-pendulum by the stairway and not have to worry about the next damn thing. Last night, we gambled Texas Hold ’em with our son. We are living-in-place out of place in a time of plague, yet it seems like indulgence to want anything more. Though we do think about death more often and send letters to grandchildren to say, ahead of time, what should be said when we are gone. Small pleasures side-by-side with carnage make sharp frictions of color, as when wartime accents the Mana of a bright natural order.
David Watts, M.D., is a poet and writer whose books include The Lucifer Connection. He lives in Mill Valley, California.
Copyright 2020 David Watts