I’m not as filled with wonder as I should be, 
I mean, fireflies — crazy! — 
floating along toting their own lanterns, 
or the locust tree with its clusters 
of menacing spikes
protruding from the trunk
an evolutionary device 
to keep the giant sloth of the near ice age 
from harvesting its sweet fruit.

Must familiarity bleed out
all amazement? A dozen steady blinkers
on the lawn no more wondrous
than a stop sign? The thumb as mundane
as the arcing stream from a public water fountain?

I’m not sure what’s made me blind,
some trick of the mind, some disease of our era
from which none are immune —
if I were to tell you there is one moon
and one sun, would you look skyward agape, 
or stand there and yawn?