Seeing by Echo
The tide comes in, rises, perhaps a bit too far,
lapping at the doorways, rising to the walkways.
The boats float high, waiting for tourists
and romantic travelers among the natives,
souls not content to live in the moment,
but in the past and future and now
somehow comingled, books and ballads
echoing in their sight.
About this poem
Sometimes, I don’t think I see things like other people. My head is too full of books and history and songs and myths and it gets in the way of my seeing what is.
Sometimes though, I think that is a good thing.
PS; You probably know this, but the picture was taken in Venice.