Something More Glorious

Spots of color remain. Just a few, somehow
all the brighter for their rareness among the empty limbs.
Somehow, they make me smile more
than when the forest is ablaze, those pinpoints of color
shouting their survival like an aleluia.

It is worth an aleluia, surviving with your color intact,
when time and storms have conspired to strip them
from you. makiing what is left more conspicuous,
more a treasure. I know this, the survivor
of more storms than I care to count,

and every day warrior who has lost parts
of himself after each storm, each battle,
but aways lives till spring, Happy to fly
what colors I have left until new growth
extends my limbs, my soul, higher.

The lost parts do not matter
as much as I once believed
I dance well on one leg. See well with one eye,
My one arm is battle tested,
happy to dispatch life’s demons
with more than a little glee,

Always happy to fly the last of my flags,
as a call to those who do not believe
in their survival. A cry to believe
that not being whole does not mean
imperfect, but rather, something more glorious,
bright, hanging on and oh so aware
that ressurection is always just around the corner.

About this poem

We are in my favorite part of fall, when most of the leaves have blown away but the few that remain are particularly spectactular.

This is becoming my favorite part of life, these years at the end, for all the broken parts. Every day an opportunity for color, Every day and conversation and kiss mattering.

The picture was taken close to my home in West Pawlet, VT.

Tom