Mount Palomar

I look at you through the telescope
on the top of Mount Palomar,
pigeons fly the path

my eyes have created.
A beeline, one no human highway could follow.
That’s the weakness of man,

and I have just accidentally pointed it out.
I didn’t mean to.
It would not happen with the naked eye.

You are wearing a blue blouse,
and your favorite jeans,
they are my favorite, too.

Ants crawl at your feet
but you are not concerned
as you turn soil with your spade,

preparing it for seeds you will plant
which should flower in the spring
and be more human than us.


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