It's the season when I see what people mean.
A hemlock branch is catching the caught light
in a jar so clearly full of memories
it enlarges like a trompe d'oeil or realism
of oils. The honeysuckle is vandalized too
from the public road, and wilder because more free.
When will I stop seeing that I have it
all your way and you have it all mine?
And Henry James is as clear as cut glass, books
where no one knows what anyone else means
and everyone acts accordingly. I can't
believe it: one doesn't have to, because it's true.
I see what people mean in saying, "It's worthwhile
if you feel you're being enlightened," and I wasn't.
I see what people meant about the season.
In spring I never knew I never knew.
I don't know how the jar's opaque light far side
Suddenly glows with the minutiae reflected,
what's next to it, becoming photographic
like lamplight through a scene on a shade, but
realer,
of its own depth, unprojected. You see what I mean.