Sniffing The Air

It is in the air. You can’t see it
but early in the morning, you breathe it in.
Fall. The first cool air. Early this year.
The smell of life readying itself
to die in spectacular fashion.
Trees. Fields. Flowers. Dazzing
in the moment, and yet… and yet.

You have come to embrace it all.
Lushness. Death. The in-between
where you live most days, caught
in rhythms of seasons and time,
sometimes the whole gamut of emotions
in a single day. Too much.

Too much. And yet, like seasons,
you have no choice. People die. People rise.
People change colors, lose their courage,
gain it and you are left sniffing the air,
wondering at the weather
and whether you need shelter this day,
or will be shelter,
or will dance in the fields
if only for a day.

About this Poem.

Sometimes the range of what brings a poem out makes my head spin.

This morning it was cool. A fall morning in August. All the images and emotions of autumn swirled through my mind even as I looked at the flowers and trees outside my back door, lush and green and full of blooms. Hummingbirds having breakfast.

Driving to the last diner standing, one of the fields just outside town was cutting hay. I love the smell of freshly cut hay, a little fresh, a little sour. Like nothing else in the world.

This week was a week of moral-defining decisions, and I passed my own tests of being who I like to think of myself being. That does not happen every day. And this morning, again at the last diner standing, I sipped my coffee with a feeling I rarely have – satisfied with myself. This week, so far, I have been enough.

So much that happens in my life, because of what I do, I cannot share. I live in a world of other people’s secrets. Secrets worth honoring. There is no single season of life. Instead, I am surrounded by other people’s seasons, all different, all in flux. That’s not a bad thing. It’s just a thing. A different way to dance.

I do not like the times we are living in. Our leadership thrives on chaos, and there is far too much of it. People, including myself, do not thrive on chaos. There is an unsettleness that transcends politics and an unwillingness to stand because of fear. People are sniffing the air just to survive. From all those things, this little poem.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Be well. Travel wisely. Be kind,

Tom