Nobody Knows the Answer to this Poem

Why is it sometimes just towards evening

when the sun is a sweet cool light over your house,

and maybe it’s mid-spring and the trees

are that brief shade of green they only remain for a week;

that suddenly all your doubts vanish for an instant,

and everything – your wife and children, the shoes

you are wearing, the garage full of junk, your hands —

seem blessed, though nothing in your life has changed

except there is this light you are part of,

this light making everything clear, so all you have suffered

and all you will suffer, even your mother’s death

from cancer and your own death to come and the death

of all that you love seems perfect;  and the light

shines right through your chest and into your heart

leaving only this happiness for a wound?

– Joe Salerno

 

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