The days are shorter, the nights longer, and the cycles of the seasons are pressing themselves upon us. Summer is lost, and spring is too far away to be a realistic hope. Walt Whitman insists on the return of spring’s inevitable law, but his poem bends our perceptions from cyclical rotation to the linear continuities of time. Nothing is ever really lost. What we have stays with us. People, experiences, joys, griefs, even the passions and life forces of youth. They remain, and amply so. What happens when we see the ruptures and gaps of life as continuities? What new perceptions do we have of others, of ourselves, of experience itself? Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost.
Todd Breyfogle, Denver, Colorado