Now You See It, Now You Don't

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.