Making Meaning

Where do we get the tendency to look for symbols 
when perhaps sometimes the thing is only itself 
and not some larger or more universal meaning?
The blackbird that lights on the topmost branch
of the fig tree may simply be resting and not 
bearing messages from the dead. The flimsy
petals of crepe myrtle that stick to my hair every
time I navigate the short walk from the sidewalk
to the car may only mean it's time to call the city 
for pruning services, and not confetti from the gods.
We find a penny on the edge of the doormat, 
and naturally we want to pick it up for luck. Ants
form a wavering but determined line from the window-
sill to the counter. In a bowl, a pear is starting to bruise
softly in its bronze-colored jacket, and I recall
the dark spot on my father's left hand. Who called 
to what, and who answered? Everywhere I walk,
it seems there's a thread I can pull on, attached 
to a picture hiding in plain sight. I know I want
to be addressed, to feel some kind of touch
which I might find reassuring. But the dark, 
glossy sheen of bird feathers, the speckled 
rind on fruit and the sugar beginning to foam
out of its pores can be presence enough. Not 
certainty, just the briefest mark of grounding.