A poem by Irene Wellman.

It Was Nothing Really

A storm had passed.
I stopped the car to walk
up and down the country road,
trees along the horizon,
nearby new leaves, flowers,
pools of water on the road.
A few cars went by.
and then the sun’s rays shone out
from under the ranged clouds
and lit up the drops on the leaves,
each drop, each leaf, each blade of grass,
small stone, stiff petal,
distant tree, near tree
finely etched.
Each moment was longer,
drawn out farther and farther
in a wide circle, and yet close
and I stood still, ecstatic.
At last, when I returned to the car,
swinging out onto the highway,
the faces of the people
in the passing cars
arose like blossoms
out of the dark.

Irene Wellman