I do not understand nature.
Cannot match bird to song,
leaf to tree, petal to flower;
too much learned at arm’s length,
the secondhand story
that comes from the TV or movies.
Among birdsong
in all its seasons,
I am confused,
out of my element,
feigning disinterest,
not knowing where to start.
Reading poems about milkweed,
poppies, or
“a thing as lovely as a tree”
can fill the gaps,
or leave me empty
-for what I have missed,
what I will never know.
Cannot match bird to song,
leaf to tree, petal to flower;
too much learned at arm’s length,
the secondhand story
that comes from the TV or movies.
Among birdsong
in all its seasons,
I am confused,
out of my element,
feigning disinterest,
not knowing where to start.
Reading poems about milkweed,
poppies, or
“a thing as lovely as a tree”
can fill the gaps,
or leave me empty
-for what I have missed,
what I will never know.
Poetry on the run 
I also get a sense that there’s an overwhelming amount of stuff out there that I’ve missed. But the crucial thing is that you’re feigning disinterest. So you’re interested, in which case you will keep on filling those gaps, because you will want to. You can’t fill them all; no-one can. Maybe that’s the point you’re making in your last line, but there’s a huge amount of gaps out there that you – that all of us – can fill. Your honesty is admirable.
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thank you very much…in the end maybe all we can ask of each other is honesty?
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