The Year of Lead

I wrote this poem, "The Year of Lead," in late October, a few weeks before the election. At the time, I was aware of the somber mood around campus and in my own life as we experienced political uncertainty in a pandemic. This heavy mood seemed to be a culmination of all the events we experienced in 2020; this poem is a reflection of moments in my life in which I felt this mood most acutely. The title is adapted from a line in "After great pain, a formal feeling comes," a poem by Emily Dickinson that I turned to a lot to get through this crazy year.

Holly Spinden

Now is not the time for carefree.

I taste it on my walks alone through the leaves,

I hear it in the tense laughter on Saturday Night Live.

I feel it at night in a friend's room while she reads me poetry.

Now is not the time for trivial.

I see it in nightmares of larvae and sacrifice,

I know it by the quiet conversations only dared in the dark.

It makes every grin taste sour, every elated thought obscene.

This is the time for quiet appreciation,

Deep love and tired anger.

To be exhausted from the more-than-mundane,

To occupy this space between Last Year

And tomorrow's light-hearted sorrows.

This is the time to let autumn's silence penetrate my soul,

To feel the chill in all the cracks in my heart,

To heal the thoughts in my head,

To care for another life,

To not let go.