The Simple Act of Being.

It is a fairy land, at least for a brief time,
early in the morning with a light fog
and the early autumn light.
A perfect golden hue and forty degrees,
weather that could go either way.

You will have to wait to know.
Wait to see if the sun burns the fog
or whether it lingers. Wait
to see what is beyond,
heaven or hell or simply a path
to someplace new.

For now, you do not see the path.
It is as if you have become blind,
seeing only the light and the beauty
of the moment.

Perhaps that is all you are meant to see.
The here. The now. This moment of beauty,
the whisper of mysterious winds. The light.
always the light.

It is the first thing you noticed on the first morning
you arrived here, in your new life, your new place,
The light. Somehow softer and sharper
at the same time. You would wake early
just to see it. There was no wondering
if you had done the right thing coming here
so far and strange from your home.
You simply were. And you healed
in the simple act of being.

About this poem

This one was not the poem I set out to write. So let’s say it is about change. About being as opposed to doing. Of the willingness to wait on God. Poetry is never about one thing. Even the poems that surprise you.

The picture was taken behind my house.

Tom