I can see right through me today.
I can see through this desk, and chair,
and sedentary room, through every wall
of this empty house, and the rooms
I no longer go into.
From the window, I can see through
the stoic oak and the mourning cypress,
and the sunset-colored sweet gum tree.
I can see through the bees circling
the birdbath full of rotten leaves,
and the overgrown path that beats
its way to me. I can see through
the century plant that I may never
see bloom and, of course,
now I can see through this poem.
But, I still can’t see past you.
– Bison Jack
Her Two Cents
We see so many things every day, every hour, every moment that we are blind to all of it except those few, rare objects that register in our brains. Why a desk and not a lamp? Why a tree and not the sky? Why a bee and not an ant? Why one person and not another? Imagine a day of not noticing what we typically gravitate to, but instead focusing on what we rarely look at, look for. What could be seen then?