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
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
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 .