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.
Miracle Fatigue by Charles Goodrich | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
Charles Goodrich is the author of a novel, Weave Me a Crooked Basket, and five books of poetry. His latest book is Knot House: New and Selected Poems from Empty Bowl Press. He lives in Corvallis, Oregon.
