Seeing Slowly

The glasses sit on the table,
folded, ready for use,
your constant companion
although

you often question their value,
for you seem to see in bits and pieces,
the whole coming slowly
story after story,

like a painting, it is never finished
until the trumpet sounds.
Not quite blind, not quite sighted,
you see slowly

and you bear the wounds,
deep scars of an improbable innocence,
patience your only virtue,
the willingness to wait

for the next layer to peel away,
understanding it is not the glasses
that help you see,
but time.

About this poem

Perhaps there are others who can see to a person’s heart with a glance, but I am not one of them. I find that over time, different layers of truth and stories emerge, conflict and combine,  and slowly, oh so slowly, a truth beyond the stories shows itself.

So much for my career as Nero Wolfe.

Tom