The Sight You Have
The sky turns blue as night falls.
Clouds ripple across the sky, a sign
of the coming storm.
A new cold fills the air, heavy
with the smell of snow.
By morning it will be here.
You know the signs.
Time and an observant eye have taught you nature’s ways.
You are rarely caught unawares.
At home, you are stocked.
Wood is piled near the door.
A fire burns.
Were that you were as good at seeing
life’s other storms that strike you
unawares again and again,
victim of a peculiar blindness
time has never healed.
But for now, all is at peace.
By morning the snow and ice will cover everything
and you will be glad for the sight you have,
limited as it is.
About this poem.
I took the picture last night from my back porch. “There’s a poem in that one.” I said. Most of the time when I say that, it takes time, weeks, months, even years for the oem to show up.
This one, however, was more obliging,