They walk about and speed on by

the other people in the street,

and never seem to pause and greet

the little joys—the sun, the sky.

–

A lens is like a telescope

looking in pressing in

making wood grains into patterns

backdrops for the things

everybody else ignores

that stand out

sharp

stark

and beautiful

–

They know the sound of joy and strife

they sing and laugh and sometimes think

but never pause long on the brink

of chaos-beauty we call life

–

So we adjust the lens more fine

Scanning the normal things

For thinks extraordinary. Hid

where no one finds

or never stoops & looks.

Hidden there in open sight

real

live

and merciful

–

People need to feel their world

the quiddity of wet and light

the joy-chill of a snowy night

a piece of heaven here unfurled .