Returning from sickness
through corridors that arbitrate "you go down that way"
not all having to do with the size of some lymph nodes
nor the redness of a throat
but more to do with the wonder I feel
at seeing a budding maple on a gray afternoon.
Its frames have the color of Smokey the cat
resting intimately between eyes
that see anew the same teacup
mottled with a chipped rim
like the perceived and the perceiver
each in a light of their co-creation.
My thoughts meander in a repetitive way
and occasionally a shift in them
would tell me that the soil
lies not completely fallow.
Teeth of the plow rumpling a little
while I feel again that familiar ripple.