I take my glasses off.
The compulsive detail of the world
goes blurred.
I no longer can distinguish
needle of pine
or finer points of sign.
But somehow I can see the warming red
of berries in a mountain ash
across the street.
For my short-sighted eyes,
some trick of how the light waves spread
amplifies
their pinpoint kindling.
I put my glasses on again.
The warm orbs
disappear
into the busy green scribble, the repetitious
blethering edge
of leaves.
And I think, perhaps a lifelong fuzziness
to certain aspects of the world
may not
have been so great a handicap.
It even may
confer advantages if some of us can spot
unnoticed warmth
not far away.
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