The Source

 

It’s attention that makes magic.

A very simple thing.

At a glance, a green blotch of woods

Lies limp on a dull horizon,

Yielding nothing of especial interest;

 

But closer up, it grows leaves and flowers,

And the shade takes a certain form,

Minutely shifting

With the tremble of the wind

In a baroque pattern

That never repeats.

 

Closer still, a darting hummingbird

Flashes into existence,

All blurred wings and gaudy colors,

On a fervent mission

To pollinate the world;

 

On his back is one white feather

For no particular reason,

And one edge of that feather

Is gently frayed,

But only because

You troubled to look.