How simple the pleasures of those childhood days, <br />Simple but filled with exquisite satisfactions. <br />The iridescent labyrinth of the spider, <br />Its tethered tensor nest of polygons <br />Puffed by the breeze to a little bellying sail -- <br />Merely observing this gave infinite pleasure. <br />The sound of rain. The gentle graphite veil <br />Of rain that makes of the world a steel engraving, <br />Full of soft fadings and faint distances. <br />The self-congratulations of a fly, <br />Rubbing its hands. The brown bicameral brain <br />Of a walnut. The smell of wax. The feel <br />Of sugar to the tongue: a delicious sand. <br />One understands immediately how Proust <br />Might cherish all such postage-stamp details. <br />Who can resist the charms of retrospection?<br /><br />Anthony Evan Hecht<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lot-s-wife/
