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 ________________________________________________________________________ Emanuel E. García, A Deeper Symmetry, 2014 |