Perception Into Intuition

This is not the whole story,
but more than food or phones,
geese in flight draw my eyes
away from the road, driving
to the cement block office
or some lush deciduous park,
its cold, moss-split stream falling
over the clef and staff of sedimentary stone.

And the moraine is not a whole story,
with granite and lime to one side,
black composite asphalt
coating the oak and ivy lined loop
up to the stick-built home,
where we reluctantly take firm steps
to ease the children 
from time's periphery into being people,
as distractive and astonishing
as if they'd taken flight.

In the picture book of our tale,
you’d see photons chip away at my skin
and know how the insulating details escaped
into a leaf-filtered sitting room,
the dust of inattention drifted in jackets
over chair backs and a week's stacked mail,
and, eyes glancing across my shoulder,
you'd noticed a drawing of goose down.

I incorrectly recall my life
as the life of the moon's atmosphere,
my empty night now packed with chlorophyll day,
the slantless unimpeded sunlight
burning into Taghkanik Hills, and if asked
will swear I had taken a cool morning cruise,
along which I thought only of love and
how to tell when love needs a teller.