Wayside Beggars Description

Brief perfections can only be
Passed by way of imperfections.

Watch morning sun cross a meadow.
Yes, it still does that. Yes, meadows

Still exist. You can visit one
If you wish and are fortunate.

Anyway, about that morning—
The visual post-processing

Feats of your brain aren’t swift enough
To smoothly track advancing light

As landscape shifts to face the sun.
You see the bright line through the green,

And again and again you see
That the scene has changed, is brighter—

Larger and larger shield of gold
Over the smaller swords of shade—

More of the surrounding branches
Of cottonwoods full in the sun—

But you have no sense of motion.
Be patient. Your imperfection

Is the author of this non-sense
Of peace in every transition.

And now a sudden spray of birds
From shade through brilliance into shade,

Like a shower of glinting coins
Tossed into this meadow, your cap.