The Kind Light

It is four in the afternoon.
Late in November,
and the sun is low.

It holds little heat at this time of day,
and the air is cool,
and the colors, bright,

the last vestiges of fall
reveling in the kind light
of a day that has waited

for this moment.

About this poem

I had traveled past this same sight earlier in the day, about noon, and the colors were not something you would have remembered. In the bright light of noon, they were washed out, dull, lifeless.

Too often, our beauty only comes out when we are out from under the harsh light of too much examination, to much detail. It is only later in life, in a relationship, in time, that we come to appreciate the full glory of a person’s soul.

And so, we give it time.

Tom