I don't like most poetry, but there's something about my aunt Sue Wheeler's poems that I find sublime and satisfying. I keep several boooks of her poems around, but I don't have them here in Georgia. Missing her poems, I found this one online. It helps to imagine it read in her crisp, no-nonsense voice.
To walk out of the field guide
and listen. To wait
for the world to approach with its dapple and hands.
Who are you?
Dreamer On A Short String.
Big Boots Clomping Through The Underbrush.
There's an understory here, shades
of meaning, tale told by a rock
To open the grammar of being seen
and let the creatures name you.
Lover Who Begins To Notice.
Figure Of Speech.
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