Quotidian

That which constantly recedes into
its background, because by nature it isn't
considered remarkable to observation.

That which is familiar, and thus
might still step lightly outside 
narrowing circles of thought.

Here is a cup and here 
is a saucer, one of a few 
from a set no longer complete. 

You trace the faded garland of ochre
around their rims— pattern that used
to be ubiquitous in many cupboards.

The starting point of every day
is often the everyday: towel on
the bar, ashes on the grate.

The beginnings of phenomenology:
what is the first thing you see
when you open your eyes? 

And yet, I confess I love the rung 
on the ladder that Aristotle calls
the vegetative soul— look at

the simple wonderments of 
proliferation: dirt under your finger-
nails, yeast on a sponge of bread.

A sprig I pluck from a bush 
and set in a jar of water builds a root 
network finer than hair. How does it know?