By Nathaniel Bellows
At the time the time felt well spent but now
I see it was wasted. Not a waste—it just had
no point—no shape—no hourglass’ tapering
waist. At a certain point, bliss gets replaced
by disinterest. If you will allow me for once
to be honest. I left the sea’s lacy wake, waking
each day well-rested, untested, unmet. Nothing
was going to change, and that was the point.
The seabirds sang: Protect your gifts! burying
their doomed eggs in the sand—sand to heat,
to melt, shape into that chalice of time: bulb
upon bulb, curvaceous, urgent as an aging
odalisque. It was a version of love not meant
to set—the best—not trashed, but wholly left
to the mists of that idly mown lawn, the little
boat trolling a coast, bereft of tide or tempest.
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Social media was as exhausting the morning after Super Tuesday as it was on Super Tuesday itself. I really wish we had a national primary day so I wouldn't have to wait weeks, at which point the nomination will probably be long decided already. I didn't get much done, and eventually I got fed up trying to concentrate and went to take a walk in the park, where the redbuds and daffodils were blooming in addition to hundreds of crocuses.
In the early evening before dinner I worked on my scanning project, then we ate bangers and mash and watched The Masked Singer (the right dismissal for a change), LEGO Masters (so now all the female-led teams are gone, ugh), and Stumptown (great episode, finally we get some of the significant events of Dex's past). Here are some of the outdoor sculptures, indoor art, and historic structures at Green Spring Gardens:
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