Late Starter

I've been meaning to speak to you about my eyes

as they seem to be going what you might call super

natural, and I'm not talking spooky here, I mean super

real-the way I lately enjoy in morning or evening twilight

watching the graceful descent of dew through the air-

silverfish, translucent, gently waved by wafts

like a gossamer downpour of spider threads-

a torrent so fine it would take all night to wet my palm.

This seems such an unlikely skill for me,

though undoubtedly achieved by you in childhood,

it somehow reminds me of the way butterflies taste things

with their feet, and my new acuity encourages

the hope that on some dear night soon, without really trying

I might glance up over my shoulder to verify by naked eye

that Venus is the only planet to revolve clockwise-

and with such proof that I'm what you might call a late starter,

would you be willing to help me hear how it is

that one of the few sounds without an echo is a duck's quack?

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Mar/Apr 2003
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