Somehow Beautiful

It is eight below.
Beautiful. Clear.
A hard cold.

And yet, somehow,
beautiful.
Soft light glowing under the clouds.

It is not a day for standing.
Gazing. Daydreams are best done
inside.

And so, you stand at the window.
Just that. Stand. Grateful for walls
and heat and a place to stand

in socked feet and a cup of coffee
in your hand. Daydreaming of love.
Present and past. Real and imagined.

You have lived both.
Real and imagined and
some days it is hard to tell which is which.

That is the magic of an imagineation
fed by a childhood of books
that colored your world

as much, sometimes more.
than the world itself,
Somehow, they still do.

Eight below.
Cold.
And you hardly notice.

About this poem

A poem about imagination. Daydreams. Love, real and imagined. About the snippets of childhood that never quite leave. Poetry is never about one thing.

The picture is of a field not far from my home in West Pawlet, VT.

Tom

PS: It really is eight below this morning.