The Effort of Sight

It is not yet winter, but you can feel it in the air,
and your imagination, always overactive,
sees it in the fields you pass.

Never mind that the corn is being harvested
and the leaves on the mountain trees remain bright.
Never mind that winter is still months away.

You still see it. Perhaps it is a sign
that you have experienced too many winters
and that despite your best efforts,

they have left their mark.

You blink. Blink again. Let the crusty remains
of sleep brush away. Let the tears of morning clear.
Sight, true sight, takes more effort than it should.

About this poem

A poem about aging. About memory. About depression. About the work of life, which has more to do with seeing than anything else.

Tom