Cornfields at Dusk

The corn is dry, golden, brittle
as a broken love,
well past harvest.

In the distance, you hear
the last peepers of the season,
those final frogs who survived the first frost,
but will not survive the next.

Wind rustles the corn, a soft staccato,
and though it is not yet arrived,
you can smell the snow.
It will be here by morning.

The light falls. Familiar. Sad. Sure.
You walk, your collar around your neck.
It is a long way to warmth,
and even though you know the way,

you know it is folly to linger,
for it is in the darkness that paths are lost
and you must make the most of the days’ last light.

About this poem

As I age, things become more precious. Though I am not quite old and my health is good, I have danced with death enough and lost too much time to depression to know that truly, every moment might be my last, and so every conversation, every touch, every moment with the ones I love have an intensity they did not have even a decade ago.

It is not a fear of loss that drives that intensity. It is a gratitude that only those that have experienced deep loss can understand.

Tom