It seems it’s how we make sense
of small corners of the world.
Or that’s the line I’ve been taking
all afternoon, not being able
to see anything entire –
but only from certain angles
and that’s how we find
what matters. It might just
be me – as the headlines
stacked up on station newsstands
seem to be suggesting –
until, home now, I’ve a chance
to look at things differently,
again in my own small way.
Like when flaking blossom drifts
might have been flecks of snow
or tonight when I was walking home
and purple mountainous clouds
banked up behind apartment blocks
might have been Vitosha
and the backdrop to our next home.
