On Titan, Saturn’s largest moon,
raindrops are much bigger
than they are on earth, and fall
so slowly you could look up,
spot one coming, and move
out of the way.
Imagine seeing that for the first time–
rain inching down from the sky,
how wide your eyes would be
as you followed each dreaming drop
to the ground, how you’d be
absolutely hypnotized.
That’s how I feel looking at this world
of ours now, knowing our time here
is never promised—I heal
the disease of being accustomed
to beauty. I see the miracle
of the Aspen tree with its golden leaves
like a thousand yellow lights
begging me to slow down.
I laugh each time someone calls me
an “an old soul.” I am not an old soul.
Please life, let the astonishment
on my face make it clear that this
is my first time here, marveling
at the steam rising from a cup
of lavender tea, the patch of sun
that traveled 90 million miles
to warm the hardwood floor
where my oldest puppy dreams,
my window thrown open
to my neighbor’s violin,
every goosebump on my skin,
a coin in god’s tip jar.
--Andrea Gibson
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