Protective Coloration

A stop on the road to Argyle, standing
at the edge of an inlet, taking in
the colors, From a distance, I am unseen,
another tree stalk, dark and upright.

Protective coloration.
It has been a part of my life for too long,
conscious of how not fitting in
made me a target, or set me up
for disappointment, as if the words I sang
had no value except to myself.
So silence, the art of making acceptable noises
became my art. It was safer that way.
Quieter. I fit in.

Age does something to you though.
Disappointment means less. In a normal life,
or an abnormal one for that matter,
disappointment arrives in droves
whether you speak your truths or not.
It is not that you hurt less,
but you come to a decision that since
you are going to hurt anyway,
you may as well do it wearing
your true colors, even if they clash
with the world around you.

So bit by bit, you shed your brown leaves
and trade them in or your flashes of yellow and blue,
colors that are not welcome,
that sometime clash and make for
jarring photographs.

It is not that you have no secrets.
We all harbour a few of those,
but you no longer fit in to fit in.
Either you do or you don’t.
You are loved or you are not
and there is enough love for
your colors that you do not suffer
from those that dislike yellow and blue.
They become noise. No more.

A stop on the road to Argyle, standing
at the edge of an inlet, taking in
the colors, From a distance, I am unseen,
another tree stalk, dark and upright.
But close up it is another matter,
you are an oddity in the woods,
a curiosity who belongs and yet
doesn’t. Content. Oddly bright.

About this poem

A little autobiography mixed in with the fall colors. I like myself more with some age on me.

Argyle is a town about 30 minutes from my home in West Pawlet, VT. And the picture was taken near there.

Tom