Look Again


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.