Dear Readers,
It is spring again, and the world is making itself new. In New England, the snow is starting to melt, the days are getting longer once more. The birds at the feeder have turned from cardinals to nuthatches. The world is turning in that great cycle.
It feels fitting that this issue of Thimble is particularly ripe with animals. We have dog poems, bird stories, fish poems, and bird pictures. We have butterflies, blackbirds, and chickens and hope—that other winged creature.
And yet all is not rosey. You might say that this is not the thrill we were promised. Underneath all the fecundity is death, gnawing at the roots.
I was watching “The Last of Us” over Christmas break, and one scene that struck me is when a pastor explains to a little girl that they must wait until the ground thaws to bury her father.
Spring is the time of life, yes, but more so tending. Tending garden, house, the dead.
In “The Last of Us,” of course, death and life get jumbled in unholy ways, because, well, zombies. What a catastrophe.
I don’t know where this is going, but I’m shambling on. I’m making damn good time.
I hope the animals come back. I hope the blackbirds are singing in the dead of night. I hope the opossums’ eyes shine brightly yellow in your backyard. I hope the pianos keep in tune. They will if we tend them.
Thank you for cultivating a greener world in the country of the imagination.
Best,
Nadia Arioli
