|View from my office (I promise there was blue sky earlier!)|
Last April Sunday
Foothills arch upward to kiss powder-blue
peeking through layered grey and white shrouds,
all three agreeing to meet at the horizon for the
purpose of establishing the bones of this poem
gestating, birthing, dissolving clouds where
fate, physics, and the Infinite decides
more blue is needed, crowding the mist
into fine opaqueness where vision was too clear,
rebirthing, rearranging the distant sky
as well as my colors and words on the fly.
In the foreground, young leaves lazily wave at me
perched high and low in trees, blooming freely
as the breeze carries oxygen my direction,
as if bidding a shy salute and farewell.
This is one of the last times I will see them
slow-dance from this perspective,
sitting inside my half-packed, half-empty office
that will soon become another family's
family room or whatever room
their imagination conjures into reality.
Daylight will fade on this clearly-defined existence
with the setting sun, one more night of uncertain rest
and begin again, renewed by the unquenchable
March forward into consistent, nebulous change
This feels like one of those perfect moments
Nimoy tried warning us about.
“A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP”
― Leonard Nimoy
No prompt. Just me living in my own head, living in the actual moment. Professional movers finish the job tomorrow.