The Look of Things                                             


            We were fresh from the magician’s

            What we didn’t see we knew
            Explained the knives and handkerchiefs,
            The ace of spades

            Before the long last leg of our way home
            We paused to rest beside a gentle brook
            Within the woods

            I closed my eyes, afraid to gaze above me
            As we lay, 
            Not of the web of leaves and branches,
            Nor of broken light or fleeing clouds  

            I couldn’t say 

            Until she rose and knelt 
            And at the water’s edge
            The strong cupped hands she lifted to her lips
            Began to waver on the surface of the stream

            Then I reflected 
            As I drank her in
            How much I read into the look of things,
            How much was there,
            How much was borne away


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            Emanuel E. García, A Deeper Symmetry2014