|Oct/Nov 2016 Poetry Special Feature|
Now You See It, Now You Don't
Look closely. The wind shows itself,
but I am not a keen observer.
I search the obvious and still remain blind
to what an expert lover knows.
Ganglia splice my edited visions
through a fog that won't dissipate,
and the resultant illusion is
shallow perception of how it really is.
This is the circle I follow
when creek meanders upstream,
fallen sycamore become bridge
to nature's beautiful dream.
Imperfectly I cross, seeking
yet to see, observe minutiae
that might translate to wisdom
if the world whispers astonishments.