I love the word, ephemeral. It’s a wisp of a word that flies out of my mouth on fairy wings and disappears the moment it is said. I love the fleetingness of it, the here-one-moment-gone-the-next thrill of saying it aloud.
That I was able to capture this sunset was also a thrill. I hadn’t planned on it. My husband and I were simply driving to meet some friends, and there it was, the trees along the way stretching their arms up in halleluja, singing the sun’s praises. Will you look at that, they seemed to say. Isn’t it glorious? It was, indeed. Seconds after I got this shot, the gold blister of sun was replaced by a thin stitch of orange along the horizon line. The yellow glow was gone.
And so were we.
Inspired by the Weekly Photo Challenge which can be found here.
From my bedroom window
I happen to glance out and spot the shroud of sun
spreading it’s last light over the horizon.
Before it melts into the woods beyond the lake —
a lake we can only view through trees bereft of foliage,
from an upstairs window —
I grab my camera to document the thrill
of this single moment.
One in millions throughout my lifetime,
each observed and stored in its own place inside my head,
to be retrieved later (if I can find it) and enjoyed again.
Remember this? I’ll ask myself. Wasn’t it spectacular?
In truth, it’s not likely I’ll remember
this particular sunset
any more than others I’ve seen,
or the thousand other moments
that caught my eye or my breath,
and made me pause to savor it.
Like our seasonal lake view,
obscured by the fullness of nature,
the brevity of moments like this
in the plenitudes of life.
That’s what the camera is for.
n.b. April is National Poetry Writing Month. If you’d like to try your hand at the form, or just read good words, check out these links. Here and Here.