I had a camera once that could take pictures
with everything in focus, from front to back,
each detail crisp, sharp, and identifiable.
I can’t do that with my own eyes, as
I learned again this week, driving through
Duke Forest, the variegated veil of fall flavors
cascading down from the tree tops to street level.
I pulled to the side of the road and gazed into
one canyon of color, layers of gold and green,
of umbers and ochres, shades of life and death,
and I wished for my old camera to let me see
all of them at once. Instead, I had to settle
for my human view, choosing the near or
the far or the in-betweens, a leafy lesson
to remind me how hard it is to carry both
dreams and memories, or hope and duty;
that the journey to wholeness is less about
seeing everything clearly than seeing
clearly that everything has its season,
its fleeting moment to be in plain view.