Proof of Life
Late in the day and you reach the outcropping of slate
where you often sit and stare over the horizon,
over the town you live in to the farms beyond.
It is a small place, your town.
And still there are many here you do not know
after a decade claiming squatters rights,
The sun strikes the fall foliage. Colors leap out.
You can smell the decay of a season coming to an end,
the cold of winter in the air.
In a few days the surgeon will apply his knife,
leave his life saving mark on your belly.
You will not walk this summit for weeks
And when you return the landscape will have changed.
The trees will be raw and naked,
the color gone for another season.
And yet, nothing will be changed.
Seasons are as much a part of the landscape
as the stones, trees and hills,
the changes proof
you are alive.
About this poem.
The picture was taken from the quarry across from my house.
I have surgery this Monday.
My last ten years have been a flurry of constant change. People coming and going from my life, and with their comings and goings, changes to my personal landscape. At times I tire of the change, but then I remind myself of the point of this poem.
From those things, this poem.