You look back as night falls.
Back at the porch with its wicker
and old red bicycle,
with its old white table full of tools
and half-finished projects.
A smattering of snow.
Old, nineteen-twenties lamps glow in the dark.
This is your life. A simple thing.
A light in the dark that was once your normal.
A place to go, half-completed,
a constant state of repair,
ready for the next broken thing
and the next adventure
in equal measure.
About this poem
The picture was taken one night last summer (so there was no snow, but there is snow there today) as I looked over my shoulder on the way to a lake cruise.
I like my gloriously imperfect life. It’s a strange and balanced thing. My mother used to say that the secret to a good life was balance and moderation. Once again, mom was right. It’s why I still listen to her, years after her death.