Perhaps this poem will explain:
First sighted on birthday seventy-six
perhaps never seventy-seven?
She says “don’t name it” as if a name bestows reality
on a twelve-centimeter monster.
I protest, acknowledge and own Malvolio,
after patient decades growing, let’s get rid of him
Fifteen days hiatus while MD’s vacation in
Aspen? Aruba? Argentina? mid-winter bliss.
Two more scans: not this, not that.
Good as it gets.
Anchor in a safe cove
that meditation chose.
The large intruder departs
taking one kidney as a trophy
of his Olympic quest for mortality.
On late arrival, almost dangerous dusk
we weave our wake past granite hazardous ledges
and touch the velvet wheel to face the wind
no longer strong midst sheltering slopes.
The battened sails now nest in lazy jacks,
the rattling roar of anchor chain is past,
the loudest sound the burbling cataract
where water sorts between three falls.
Beaver slaps his tail and dives
to join his family snug in lodge below;
moose drink here, and shy deer forage close
alongside awkward woodland caribou.
As sun slants slowly beneath four walls of pine,
the August sky displays its Northern lights.
We’re snugged at anchor, joining but two boats
in space would hold two hundred craft.
A sense of peace, and distance from the horde
settles now upon my tired crew.
now we’ve solitude.
Add six weeks of recuperation to the 47 days between initial detection of the cancer and the ensuing surgery, and you can understand why Arts Spectrum was silent for three months. It is good to be back.