In The Fullness of Time - Feb 3 2025

 

In The Fullness of Time

Feb 3 2025



It’s all a still life.

A vase

on a sturdy wooden table

the light hits just so,

a bowl of fruit

with a bite taken out.

Grey shadows

condensing to black,

the elegant curve of its glass

conjuring colour from white.

A collection of moments

that my own motion blurs

going at the speed of life;

a glimpse drifting past

if I even think to look,

and peering back

a grainy photograph

in the unlikely chance there’s time.

Instead of clarity

I get whiplash;

flash cards

a blink will miss,

moving pictures

that are running so fast

they unspool from their reel.

Perhaps stillness

in the fullness of time.

But for now, I’m never in the moment

for real,

present

receptive

at rest.

So I imagine stopping

before a painting

and backing up a step or two,

forehead furrowed

eyes narrowing.

Noticing each brush stroke.

Taking delight

in the calibration of colour

and how he captures light.

And admiring

the masterful restraint

exquisite detail.

No photographs

are permitted in the gallery.

So I will leave

with what I’ve taken in

and only that.

Revisit, perhaps, when time allows.

When the apple

with the bite taken out

will still be fresh;

its white flesh, unbrowned,

its smoothly polished red

as full.

As usual, another riff with no end point in mind. I was casting about for a subject, and came upon those two simple words: still life. After that, I just went with the flow and let the poem write itself.