On Trusting The Eyes


I was out on the spillway pulling apart the beaver’s work
And a small flood swirled around my boots
The samaras of maple trees moving in the water like tadpoles
And I knew they were samaras but I kept looking
They were so much like black tadpoles, could be frozen tadpoles
That I bent my back down
And put my face close to the water and had to reach out

Sometimes seeing is believing but yet
There is still work left to do
With the hands and the twisting of faith
To know what is truly real

Look for tadpoles, look for maple seed, look for miracles
With your eyes, with your hands, your heart
But also with those senses unnamed
And all of them together


Previously published in
A Swineherd’s Journal


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