What mystery

What mystery
exists for me now
in ordinary life?

I have lived enough
to know no madman
in a blue box
will really come for me.

There will be
no fame or greatness.

My trajectory, predictable,
happily free from chaotic people
and their drama.

Safe, peaceful.
These are the words I use.

And sometimes, I say
dull, bored, endless.

And become inconsolable.
But remember I am loved,
and begin to climb out.

The leaves turn gold and fall
and my ache gets better.
The nights bring breathless cold
and I can breathe again.

In the street, I see it.
A miracle shows me wonder:

A perfect oak leaf, faded brown,

spine and veins shot deep,
rich with red.

And I hear…the sound of a jet?
Wind in the eaves?
The sounds of the blue box.

Above, the sky, a lighter blue
– a bubble but not a bubble –
containing all wonder I have known.

And I know I would tell him,
not without my husband.

And I realize
the wonders of the Universe
sit on my doorstep,
sleep in my bed,
crunch in the leaves beneath my feet.

(c) sfb 10.29.12