i don’t believe you have to scale the Grand Canyon
to write poetry, or touch the Berlin Wall
or smell the first cup of chai
brewed in the pre-sun fog over Mother Ganga
i don’t believe you have to have
an English degree or know
what a past participle is
if you are able simply to notice
the way the sand splits in jagged chunks
as the rivulet runs through, as if
it had been carved that way
a thousand years ago but melts
like a drive-through soft-serve cone
at the slightest touch of your fingertip
if you can still be startled
by the way the ground billows under
each cautious step
into a peculiarly solid mound
and relaxes
gently back
into the stream
as soon as your toes
move on
