You cannot remember if the photograph was taken
in the morning or at the fall of dusk:
the sun, low on the horizon, postcard perfect,
sun all romantic and enveloping,
a sign of hope in the morning or
gratitude in the afternoon.
All you need to know it that is beautiful and hopeful,
that it happened in your life
and it will happen again, that perfect moment.
What happens once can happen again.
This is why you keep the pictures. Thousands of them,
Sometimes well labeled, sometimes not.
Sometimes well remembered, sometimes not so much,
but all treasured, a joy of what has been,
what may be again, in a new form,
the sun in a different place, but
always bright. Seasons not withstanding.
About this poem.
Life comes. Life goes. Nothing remains. Nothing is lost. The good things come back to us. That is one of my life’s loudest lessons. The good things come back.
The picture was taken at the peak of the quarry across from my house. It was afternoon. I can tell from the mountains in the distance, in the west. But I prefer sometimes not to know. To believe everything is universal and personal at the same time. Infinite possibilities.