You are stillness. I am roam.
This is the beginning of a poem I am working on. The rest of it won’t come. And so, this past weekend I went for a drive, looking for moments like these instead:
On one side of the alley, the mixture of sun and shade apparently had been just right (said Goldilocks). The opposite side of same alley, too much sun and not enough shade had finished the berries off (said Sherry who writes about there being too much August and not enough snow).
I was feeling fairly pleased with myself, finding the photo-ops I had hoped for. Autumn here is uncertain, sometimes it wears an exaggerated face. We never know when the Artic Front will blow in, wiping out fall colors.
So caught up with withering and ripe berries, I had my macro-focus going on. This means the batteries drain ten times faster. And this means not being aware of the background. I had forgotten about the poem I could not write, about the lack of balance in my life (of course I had to bring that up), about the approaching northern front. I didn’t think about how I might look to the casual observer: my face two inches from the vines, scrunched down in muddy tire ruts in an unnamed alley (are any alleys named?), two feet away from a collective dumpster.
Eventually I stood up. Stretched the kinks out of my legs, my back, my feet, my macro-focus trigger finger. And noticed what I hadn’t found. What had been waiting for me to notice. This was when I saw the doors, and when more of the poem showed up.
When I leave I’ll do so poorly. Remember this — I run when I am lost.