I sent old shibboleths tumbling off my hips
Kept turning clocks til I see God.
Others all ridden with concerns
About the sensory uptake of furniture, books, and dust
Not to be distracted, even when sirens wail outside
The window of the ivory tower,
To the rescue of one less alive to them
Than a propositional structure.
But you turn, you look, you listen.
The sounds the human spirit makes impress upon you
And the grace with which you carry your arms
Knowing there is more to being
Than the mind that needs delighting.
And you have imagination enough to know
This makes me guilty of bright eyes for you.
3.6.2010
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