With the shape of life in its constricted orbit, it’s easy at times to feel like a water droplet rushing through a straw. Time seems not to be moving forward but to be counting down…tick, tick, tick. Yes, I still have mechanical clocks (I find them comforting), and even some watches that wind. The hands move forward inexorably. But even the digital clocks (I have those too) parade in my imagination with the same ticking sound. Robin Morgan’s poem, “Count Down,” evokes this same sense of rushing inevitability, until….The poem calls us to throw off the accounting of survival, to risk the first step, to cease to hear the countdown and instead bathe in the absurdity of love.
Todd Breyfogle, Denver, Colorado