Even on the drabbest of mornings I hope for it.
To notice atoms arranged differently.
For something I’ve walked past
a hundred times
to unfold itself anew:
the way seed pods move up the stems of the toothwort.
A hummingbird catching flies in a swift arc.
New ferns greener with young growth.
The pace of the clanking flagpoles on a windy day.
The purpling of spent shooting star flowers.
Even the sounds of my own thoughts rubbing against
the most familiar neighborhood street signs.
Each day a self
I’ve never met before
glows inside my ribs.
It’s there when
I open myself to the sweet orb
If I look.
If I listen.
Originally published in Synkroniciti Magazine.
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