Warm, round-limbed people, sober
children sifting sand from hand
to hand, and babies stretching
toes in rhythmic concentration
as you imbibe the milk that slumps
down in the bottle—
look at the world, for me.
Does an old dog usurp the street
for sleeping, does a gardener some
where pull weeds with a squeaking
of white roots that cling trembling
to his palm, does a morning
smell of baked bread flare
into the air—it did, when I was there.
Whether young leaves are haloed
with sun along the bough, or it is
grey today, with light just
guttering in the sky, whoever and
wherever you are, whether well or
wrapped in some austerity of
pain—look again. Look again.