You are a master of these “snapshots” (the photographic metaphor is apt). You say (show?) just enough (not too much). No muddle, no tricks, just clarity.
It’s the kind of poem that sneaks up on you. At first, it’s just a quiet scene — a man on a bench, a fountain, a book he isn’t really reading. But the small details, like the second pair of trousers, make him suddenly feel fragile and strangely memorable. What moved me most is how the narrator only realizes later that the moment stayed with him. There’s something tender in that — the way a stranger can open a small window into our own thoughts without ever knowing it. The poem turns that simple encounter into a reflection on how little we understand about the paths others walk. And by the end, it leaves you with this soft, lingering sense of how grace, or whatever we choose to call it, touches us in the quietest ways.
Tender loveliness.
Thank you, Dian.
You are a master of these “snapshots” (the photographic metaphor is apt). You say (show?) just enough (not too much). No muddle, no tricks, just clarity.
Wonderful of you to say so, Peter! Thank you. The idea of snapshots is giving me ideas.
It’s the kind of poem that sneaks up on you. At first, it’s just a quiet scene — a man on a bench, a fountain, a book he isn’t really reading. But the small details, like the second pair of trousers, make him suddenly feel fragile and strangely memorable. What moved me most is how the narrator only realizes later that the moment stayed with him. There’s something tender in that — the way a stranger can open a small window into our own thoughts without ever knowing it. The poem turns that simple encounter into a reflection on how little we understand about the paths others walk. And by the end, it leaves you with this soft, lingering sense of how grace, or whatever we choose to call it, touches us in the quietest ways.
A lovely read, Adriao! Much appreciated.
Beautiful
Thank you, Joanne!
Beautiful. Thank you.
Thank you, Margaret.