It is late enough in the season, you are used to it.
The snow. The third fall of the season.
Not crippling. Merely another layer of white
over a landscape that already was while.
At the the diner’s counter an old man is talking
to no one in particular.
He and I are the only ones here
and I am not part of his conversation.
He speaks of rainforests and leaves the size of plates;
of sunburns and dancing by firelight;
African drums and young women in saris.
Through the kitchen door, the cook,
earplugs entrenched and draping wires
is bebopping. I cannot hear his music
but part of me wishes I could.
We are all living in different worlds.
Mine is green dandilions and grass.
Spring sun and romance more real
than the ones you live. Not a cloud in sight,
somehow missing the snow on the ground
and the sixteen degrees of wind all around.
About this poem.
Inspired by the man at the counter in the nearly empty diner this morning.
We do all live in different worlds. If we are fortunate, we come together with someone else’s now and again, and become something entirely new.
The picture was taken not far from my home. In early spring last year.