An Uncertain, Perfect Moment

The morning teases rain.
The light is somehow bright, somehow muted.
Leaves litter the side of the road.

It has been years since you drove this road.
People say nothing changes here, but that is a lie.
Everything changes. Houses rise and fall.

Trees blow over. Gardens blossom and die.
Death robs you of lives you treasured.
Everything changes.

The road glistens from the night’s rain.
Spent leaves litter the shoulders.
It is early in the season, and yet already

the leaves have piled thick. One good storm
and they will blow into the river below.
This road will become a post card.

One more good storm
And the trees will be stripped bare,
ready for winter.

But now is a perfect moment.
A little color. A little green. Mysterious light
that you have never properly captured

with paints, cameras, or verse. And yet
you still try, a Don Quixote searching for life
in the very place it has so often run away from you.

You breathe in. You can smell the rain. Fresh
with an undertone of death. Like so many
moments, if we could only see it,

perfect.

About this poem

“Forever is composed of onws.” – Emily Dickinson. One of my favorite lines.

A poem about journey. About life and love lost and found. About Autumn. About the ever-changing uncertainty of life. Poetry is never about one thing.

The photograph was taken not far from my house.

Tom