Bones of the Tree

The weather changes. A new season.
Fog in the fields.
The familiar becomes murky, less sure.

It is a silly thought, but one your life has prepared you for,
that just on the other side of the fog,
everything is changing, a stage in flux,

No longer certain what lies just beyond your sight,
or what will be there when the curtain rises.

This is what lies and betrayal and hurt and abandonment do.
What they have done, left you with no sense of certainty,
living in the moment, not by choice, but by history.

As best you can, you make it work for you.
You take pictures. Write the moment.
If nothing else, it gives the moment an intensity

most lives lack.

And so you stand. You see the bones of the tree
at the edge of the fog. Nothing else. Beauty
in the in-between place,

while waiting for monsters.

About this poem

A slightly autobiographical poem. A poem about the tree in a nearby field. About the changes of seasons, weatherwise and life wise. Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom