Real

One morning last fall Bernie and I
   left our B&B on the coast of Maine,
      agreeing we would drive inland,
         not knowing where we would end up.
I was looking for color to photograph;
   Bernie was simply out to see.
Noontime found us in Union, Maine.
Union is home to 600 families,
   a tiny village green,
      and Hannibal's Cafe.
Naturally, we pulled over for lunch.
The atmosphere was clean, casual,
   well-worn, and friendly.
Both coffee and soup were great,
   warming us nicely.
We enjoyed listening to the talk
   that jumped from table to table—
      these folks had gathered there before.
Over one spoonful I spotted a T-shirt
   on the far wall.
"Hannibal's Cafe" it read, in outdated graphics,
   a steaming coffee cup to one side.
I knew right away I needed that shirt.
Nowadays I pull it over my head often.
Each time I remember with fondness
   that warm atmosphere,
      the day filled with color,
         our lovely stay in Camden, Maine.
That plain red-orange cotton shirt, already fading,
   brings me easy joy.
That's how most of my photography works.
I see, for example, the image
   of the wet leaves found on the bush
      along the edge of San Antonio's Riverwalk last month,
         and I smile inside.
I remember our walk in the overpowering rain,
   the dinner overlooking the water,
      the unusual morning sounds.
I believe one mark of contemplative photography
   is that it's about the real,
      wherever that appears—
   beside rivers,
      in fields just down the road,
         inside white-washed village cafes.
I believe it's less about what's grand
   and more about what's authentic.