Missed at Your Own Peril

A towseled lawn next to a white washed wall.
Sitting close to a fire at night.
Sitting close to her at night.
A clear night with the Milky Way framed in darkness.
Crisp white dishes on an antique table.
Fresh coffee first thing in the morning.
A cold beer on a hot afternoon.
Rereading a favorite book like an old friend.
SIlence. Rare and precious.
Music. And the time to truly listen.
Waking to a cat purring next to your leg.
Waking to the sound of her breath.
Waking again, to understanding
of how wrong you were, before it is too late.
A kind word.
A listener working their magic.

It is the simple things.
The small things
that almost get away
that mean the most,
and are too often,
way too often,
missed.

About this poem

Simply one of my truths. One I learned from my therapist when I was in the darkest of moments; one that got me through then, and still used so very often today to dig myself out of darkness. Small things matter.

The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Village in Hancock, Mass.

Tom