The Golden Hour

Eight o’clock. Early enough that the light is still fresh.
Dew covers the car and the back steps.
in the distance, you can see the first colors of fall
and you feel it in the air.

It is cool. Still summer but feeling of autumn.
It is the best of both worlds, lush and green,
flowers still bright and perfect
despite the inevitable change of seasons,

Not unlike the time of life you live in,
inevitable age showing in white hair and wrinkles,
yet still filled with the color of passion and joy
and enough energy to continue just a bit longer.

You breathe in the air. It’s coolness.
The threat of heat later in the day.
Humid and lush and filled with reminders
of perfume. You smile, remembering

the soft curve of your love’s shoulder
peeking out of the quilt as she slept,
as you woke. A simple beauty
and your life is full of them.

The older you become, the more aware you become,
understanding better after a few brushes with death
just how rare and precious it all is. How every moment
matters. Even, or maybe especially, the quiet ones;

aware how everything feels unfinished.
That there is more to do. More to become,
that the changes become you, show you
in your best light, the last light of day.

About this poem

For those of you who do not pay attention to photographers, the “golden hour” is a time of day, just before dusk, when the late day sun is flattering, and pictures of whatever you set to capture, people or places, look and photograph beautifully.

I am enjoying my older age so far. Even as I become more aware of how short the time left is.

The picture was taken at Olana, the home of Frederich Church, one of the great landscape artists of the Guilded Age. But it could have been taken anywhere. A late summer blossom.

Tom