Mixed Messages

It surprises you. Smoke in the morning.
Someone, somewhere with a fire lit
against the cool first of September air.
First fires. A sign.

It startles you. Unexpected and harsh
and nostalgic at the same time.
It startles you and you look up.

There they are. The first leaves yellowing.
A small patch on one tree, until you look again.
You notice the flowers. How few remain.

Other trees, the leaves still green,
but withering. Dry. It won’t be long.
The earth is aging into winter. What is left
is suddenly bittersweet. Flowers to be savored.

Less profligate. more precious like kisses as you age.
You sigh. A deep sigh no one hears.
There is nothing new here. Fall comes every year.
You should be ready. But you fall in love with every season.

Deeply in love, even knowing as only old men know,
that nothing lasts. Only God, and even he is a chameleon,
too many things at once to comprehend.

But that has always been your weakness.
mixed messages. You are perhaps too simple.
Your love does not change with the seasons.
Smoke confuses you. You shut your eyes

and imagine the world as it will be in another month,
when the landscape catches up with the weather,
and life becomes pure again.

About this poem.

It was in the forties this morning and when I opened the back door, there was indeed wood smoke in the air. Everything else came from that. I really do have trouble with mixed messages. I always have. I really do love for the long haul. I yearn for simplicity, of which there is not enough of.

Life is good. The seasons are changing. Both are true.

From all that, this poem.

Tom

The picture was taken not far from my home in West Pawlet, Vermont.