When you Ask what I am Looking At

I stop at the oddest of places.
One minute full of conversation and movement,
the next still and staring.
I am old enough now for this to be something
to worry about. A short circuit. Old age
starting to show itself. But it is nothing new,
this stopping.

As a child, I would sometimes get left behind
as the family kept walking and I did not.
Standing. Staring. Never at the same thing.
Always at the same thing.

There is no secret to it. I see beauty.
I see it in landscapes and ruins and a single flower
or a bit of wall and window. I see it in cityscapes
and the broken people who litter them.
I see it in details. In the expanses.
In the old woman with the frizzled hair
and the child, all pigtails and smiles and energy.
I see it in you.

And when I do. I stop. I can not help it. I stop
and look. Gaze. Absorb. I am memorizing
not just the sight, but the wonder,
the miracles of beauty and soul.
It is not a conscious thing. I do not decide to stop.
I cannot help it. Like a man in the desert,
I seem compelled to gaze at the oasis
before plunging on, marked, filled with the image.
They stay with me. All of them.
They become part of me,
part of my soul, emerging
at the most unexpected times.

So when you ask what I am looking at
when I am clearly looking at you,
know this. Once again you have captivated me
And, unable to help myself, I gaze.
Again and again, I gaze.

About this poem.

It was not supposed to be a love poem. But here we are.

The picture was taken at a nearby farm.

Tom