On seeing and being seen

Probably there are people who could live in California

and never notice the red and green shouldering the sky and the clouds

pouring over the mountainside and down like syrup

dripping onto thirsty yarrow and swirling.

 

And probably there are people who overlook the Grand Canyon

and complain about the traffic and worry someone might fall

worse than blind to the breathtaking ferocity of a river-gnawed

planet revealing its layers and begging to be seen.

 

And probably there are people who can stand knees deep in a meadow

without smelling the heated pollen breeze of future flowers

and without hearing the ardent buzz of head, abdomen, and thorax

seeking head, abdomen, and thorax in the dwindling hours

allowed before the inevitable frost.

 

Probably there is someone who could stand beneath a full moon

and not feel the unearthly pull of romantic desire to

visit, to hold the curve of that surface under one's own hand,

to surrender to the gravity of the tides and to feel one's body

rock and sway in the gentlest of lights deserving to be seen.

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