Look Again - May 17 2022

 

Look Again

May 17 2022

Have I lost my sense of wonder?

What it's like

to see for the first time.

Not to mention the other senses

so easily neglected

in daily life.

How children learn

and explore;

their bright upturned faces

open and receptive,

drinking-in

with unquenchable thirst.

How wise men

receive the world

without expectation;

never assuming

they already know,

never ignoring

the small things

no matter how inconsequential they seem.

How a blind man

listens so attentively,

has no fear of touch.

And how lovers

breathe each other in,

feel the heat

drawing them closer.

Even my dog,

who inhabits a universe of smell

I can barely begin to imagine.

Straining against her leash

and zigzagging back and forth

it's as if she's walking me,

her wet quivering nose

glued to the ground.

But the human brain

is wired for efficiency;

why bother to process

what you've already seen?

So we light up to novelty

ignore the familiar.

It takes effort to open your eyes,

humility

to look again.

I take a long deep breath

of cool April air.

Feel the coolness

filling my chest,

inhale the smell

of well-seasoned birch

burning somewhere,

wet mulch

and slowly thawing earth.

The tree

in early spring

is set against a high blue sky,

its tightly clenched buds

on the cusp of unfurling.

They are an unripe green

that will darken with time,

but already

are drinking in the sun,

greedy for life

after a long winter slumber.

A gust of wind

scatters left-over leaves

with a soft rustling sound.

I place my hand on the tree

and feel the pleasing roughness of its bark,

my puny weight

against the trunk's immovable strength.

A tacky patch

of sun-warmed sap

just won't let go

and sticks to me for hours.

All those years

I should have looked up

learned to slow down.

One of my favourite kind of poem: a lyric poem of close observation and microcosm, rooted in nature. In a busy, confusing, and frightening world, going small like this feels like a time-out.