What Tourists See
You paddle out in the lake for just this.
A single flower, unlikely, roots in the muck.
A reminder of how far you have come.
Tourists seeing the flower.
You seeing the mess below.
what it takes. What we survive.
About this poem
Tourists blow through. Take their trophies. And move on. Others settle a while. Pay attention. Become part of the fabric, if only for a time. True of places. True of people. I’ve learned I suck as a tourist. I always want to linger.
People are almost always more than we know. Until we stay a while. Listen. And listen some more as stories unfold and trust develops.
I am always amazed at the growth and change in me from what I was to what I am. It makes me wonder what I might yet become.
The picture was taken in nearby Emerald Lake, from a kyack.