What may seem ordinary and unremarkable to some, can be otherwise for one with, let us say, a poet’s eye.

Setting aside the eternal, internal argument of whether this or any being ”is a poet,” or merely someone who emits words in various ways that others nominate as ”poetry,” I do seem in my circle of fellow humans to look at things afresh, askew, perhaps in a child-like way.

Yesterday, as I sat myself down in a subway train to return home from the Cafe Fix near Fridhemsplan in Stockholm where I read the latest letter from Fred in California, I was immediately aware of two young women, no longer little girls, sitting near, across from me. One had to move her legs to accommodate me.

A brief, glancing scan told me they could be sisters, around age 15.

They had a special way of being with each other that reminded me of my twin granddaughters, aged 20.

I was merely three stations away from my destination so I had but little time, with surreptitious glancing, to ascertain they were, indeed, twins. It felt good.

I thought of Sabrina and Samantha and their special sisterly way, their confident Being with each other, the lack of artifice between them.

So, this little occasion stayed with me and I felt the need to to tell others of it.

It was nothing special to them.

Being disappointed in failing to send this special feeling to others, I concluded that a poet (may I use this appelation? should I?) sees things differently.

A poet’s eye sees
Patterns, worlds and wonderments
In the usual

05/27/2006

Posted on 05/27/2006
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