Air WIthout Judgement

You can smell the rain long before it arrives,
before the clouds coalesce into storms.
It is something in the air. Not exactly dampness,
but a warning to vague to name, but real nonetheless.

You learned it when you were young,
spending summers on your grandfather’s farm,
chopping peanuts or working in the garden,
you felt it. The inevitable storm.

It’s an odd thing, to be able to predict
one sort of storm, and so often miss another
that hovers close. Your innocence blinds you
to the point you do not trust what you see

and so you may see the confligration coming,
and somehow not see it. Or both.
That kind of mixed messages, not from the world
but from my own weakened heart,

is not your friend. But it is not all bad.
It has taught you to walk in the now,
that dreams are dangerous
and regrets even more so,

which leaves you with what is.
Nothing else can be trusted.
God has a plan, you are sure, but
you are not privy to it, but

this moment is part of it,
and so I live in a strange land
that lacks history or dreams
of your own.

You breathe the air again.
feeling the storm as it comes close,
as it swerves or is carried out to sea,
content on the beaches.

Content to breath the air
without judgement.

About this poem

A bit of autobiography. A bit of inspiration from a question from a parishoner this morning. A bit of being ready for a few days away. (coming soon!). A strange stew sometimes, poetry.

The picture was taken at Race Point on Cape Cod.

Tom