missed

I wanted to capture a moment the other day.

A blizzard had begun overnight and the view at 7 a.m. was ethereal. No sunlight had made it through the quiet cover of dawn and the wildly spiraling flakes. It was as though a fog had fallen, creating a muted dove-toned world ~ surfaces and shadows in shades of white and gray.

The birch tree loomed larger and more majestic in its mantel of thick snow; once-bare lawn furniture invited me to sink into frigidly plump cushions, the table in front of them now a gigantic ottoman.

I knew I wanted to take a photo but couldn't postpone going to work, so told myself that I'd come back to it in a couple of hours.

Two hours later the snow pack was breaking down, the air had lightened a bit ~ the gossamer veil lifted. The lawn chairs and benches looked stripped ~ their padding drooping or fallen away. The birch seemed to have shrunk.

The moment had passed.

How many times have I said, Later, only to find that time didn't stand still...later becoming too late?