Translucent

You pass this old barn every day,
often stopping to snap a photograph,
hoping to capture something new,
a perfect angle, a trick of the light, something
to discover something fresh, something
interesting enough someone will pause
for just a moment, and look. Really look.
More often than not, you fail to find
what you thought you saw, and you are left
with a mere snapshot. Pretty enough,
technically excellent, but not quite set apart.

That has always been your need,
to be set apart somehow.
Not too loudly. Your mother taught you
not to be too loud. But also not quite
disappearing. Translucent as a ghost
but with color.

About this poem

I do pass this barn most days. And I have taken pictures of it many times.

For some reason, my mother, long passed, has been on my mind this morning.

From those thoughts, this poem.

Tom