Inside

Inside (A poem? A song? A lament?)

You start to notice things in new ways, when you have nothing else to notice. 

The way the sun breaks through shadowing glass, the way the hum of the fan echoes. 

The feel of a sheet against your skin, the rough touch of a quilt. 

Follow the edges of the seams with your fingertips. 

There is nothing else to do but notice. 

On the counter, a jar you never saw before

What’s inside? Mystery seed or spice or leftover tea. 

Live dangerously and consume it, why not. 

The world hardly seems worth fighting for these days. 

Might as well take the risk. 

In the morning, a lizard does his dance 

Push-ups on the tree limb, catching light.

Tan of his skin turning mustard in the sun. 

He’s wondering about the silence, the vanishing sounds-

There is nothing else to do but notice. 

Perfect mango starts to mold and

In the press of handprint, turn green and dark-

While across the way, a stranger sings,

You can’t begin to know the words but

A child joins in on a flute, just softly, just so. 

Evenings the floor feels sticky or dusty or warm

And every time, it surprises. 

A gold hoop of an earring is found 

The lost favorite t-shirt, discovered. 

There is nothing else to do but notice. 

Mid-day light is different then morning light which is different then 2:34 light.

Heat rises and falls and floats on breezes, somehow. 

The oven makes a popping sound 

Contracting when I turn it off

The steel sighs a breath of relief 

Life will begin again, someday

The rush, the sounds, the hum of need,

And the blindness may come again.

When we have everything, and forget to see.