One Last Look

    Sometimes I don't feel like I am writing a poem, it is more like I'm coming down with one, as if it was a cold. Like I'm starting to have symptoms and realize I am just going to have to let this thing run its course. Such was my last poem about the Valley of Dry Bones. I really had better things to do and the bare bones of it (pun disclaimer) came pretty easily, but then I wound up wasting hours reworking the words. This one, however, flowed out slowly, naturally, with little interference from the author.

 One Last Look 

I think I have figured out why

on what I have come to call

the sun sandwiches of autumn--

cool mornings and evenings

with a thick layer of sunshine in between--

the reason I sit stupefied, still

like a lizard in the sun.

It is because I am afraid

that any movement will disrupt

the perfection of the day.

  

There is little perfection in this world.

Days like this will soon give way 

to wind, rain, and later, snow.

But sometimes God entices us

at certain sunrises, sunsets, 

and sunny autumn afternoons,

with a postcard from Paradise past,

 a glimpse of Heaven to come. 

And only a fool would leave perfection

before taking one last look--at Home.

 

9/23/25