When the blossoms of the winter camellia
glowing white as bone China cups
through the late-February afternoon gloom
don’t give rise
to even a glimmer of delight
I figure I’m just tired
of getting my spirit teased
by every trivial outburst of beauty.
But later when I notice
drops of dew
suspended from the fence wire,
each bead reflecting another whole world
like a necklace of disembodied gods’ eyes
and I don’t shudder or gasp,
I realize I’m suffering
revelation overload.
Yeah, I know: any moment’s
run-of-the-mill exquisiteness
will never come again,
but I just can’t seem to absorb
any more amazement. I’m sick of epiphanies,
weary of wonders.
Dear world, grant me
a few more weeks of restorative boredom.
Your glories will not be diminished
by the absence of my attention.
Come spring, with luck,
I’ll be porous again.
--Charles Goodrich
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