This poem by Erin Pickersgill comes right from her own backyard. She writes, “I spent most of the lockdown days with my children in the grass, and playing and writing. As the boundaries closed in, and still do, I notice that my world is large and detailed enough to locate all of my questions, and for that I am thankful.”
For the Pleasure
For all the times I have opened the door, purposefully,
I am trying to recall ever doing it
To feel the warmth or breeze on my skin,
For the sake,
For the pleasure of it.
Is it worth disrupting the spider webs that have been woven
overnight?– even I as I write
this they work and wrap
and suck.
I am slow to give
without permission, but the spider–
even so, here is:
the web for breaking, the door hinge
for opening, the sun’s rays for drenching.
Erin Pickersgill
Erin is trying to be honest; while reading and writing is her cup of tea, she actually likes coffee and doing absolutely nothing, and knitting, sometimes jogging, and watching very dumb TV. In all of it she wonders, could God be hiding here? Sometimes, she is. And then she writes about it.