Just As It Was

Just As It Was
Christopher Bogart

I took a walk today because
there seemed to be no other way
to get from point A to point B.

It was an amazing experience
to slowly pass each house,
each tree, each blade of grass
and see them for the first time.

I didn’t know that there was a pineapple
on the lintel of that old white house
that graced the street that runs
right through the town,
a welcome gesture, it seemed to me,
as well as a talisman for
my new endeavor,
my new adventure,
my new mode of transportation.

The sensation of sight and smell and sound
unfolded around me as I kept a steady pace,
regulating my gait to what assailed my eyes,
my nose and my ears.
All fears of distance and of time seemed to disappear,
dissipated like so much steam,
from frosty dew that lay upon the grass
in the cool crisp autumn air of morning.

And, without warning, I stumbled upon
discovery after discovery,
like so much treasure haphazardly
strewn upon the path I trod today.

As I approached the entrance to Walcott Park,
a middle aged caretaker with a salt-and-pepper beard
worked to clear away debris from last week’s storm.
“Good morning.” I said,
And, for the first time in a long time,
I really meant it.
“Good morning.” He replied. “Nice day.”
He seemed to mean it too.
“It sure is.” I breathed in clear fresh air.
“I love the autumn.” He shared the thought with me,
as he dragged dead branches to the pile.
“I, too.”

As I walked past him, he regretfully added,
“To bad the leaves have to fall.”
And as I looked around me, and measured the day
I realized, for the first time in a long time,
and in so many ways
that maybe he was right.
It seemed perfect,
just as it was.