In our lives we have many experiences
travails of innocence no one
has an answer to suggest an outcome
only hitch on,
grab a strand of burlap,
feel the dust build underneath our psyche
and ride on.
I’ve always enjoyed the horizon
seeing wheat fields flowing in an autumn breeze,
the fresh blossoms of a rainy morning aftermath,
often my favorite moments
caught in the rain
soaked to the bone
fresh soup and a warm fire
in the evening lull.
On occasion I recall that summer afternoon,
we walked in our usual path,
to a sort of ‘city’ glen above John Muir,
where there would be
an eventual opening in the brush,
we would lay there
act like a couple in love
no one’s eyes except our own.
This one time,
and this would be my definition of loss,
I would nap in that moment,
and did I in the afternoon sun
wake shortly there after
and she would be gone,
I would then stand only to notice her figure
meandering into the park,
having left this moment
I remember not knowing what to do,
far too distant would a shout of name
turn your head,
either distance or time
would cause her, might, continue forward
That was the message going through my mind.
I hurried to try to catch up,
to not lose this moment.
We do eventually, in time find ourselves to be on course,
yet still could we already know some concept of remorse.
© Thom Amundsen 5/2021