I saw a flock of snow buntings,
Once.  Once, just barely.
How I saw it I don’t know.
White on snow.
It was a slight movement 
That caught my eye.
Then we were gone.
Well on our way.

Look straight ahead
As though you know what to expect,
And where you are going.
Stay your course
…if you must.
But be alert
For what’s to the side
For there the path may lie.

Sit by the light
Reading the book
Studying the words
…but watching the margins
For something not written 
…For some thought that
   …Flits across the page.
Think about it straight on
Make your list of right’s and wrong’s
But don’t forget or pass over
What is niggling on the edge.

Notice the wiggling bush
At the edge of the field
Or the way the grasses sway
Or the hush that descends….
Wait for what is to come.
Wait for the moment,
   for the movement,
     out in the periphery
          That you know you barely see…

And what of the margins
Out on the edge
   …of society?
The people,
Who roost upon the street
Or dine in the dumpster
And move so slowly, 
Like ghosts, 
They live without margin.
So look at your phone, 
And rush on  if you must…
But wonder, oh god, wonder what you miss
If unaware of the side,
As though you were blind.

And what of the times 
We shimmer inside.
Are strangely warmed
By a breeze so soft.
A breeze that holds an invitation
…To something new,
…To something generous
… And generative?
To a special grace?
An Epiphany road
Where we don’t walk alone?

And I hope, someday,
My margins widen,
Ever so slightly,
   Helping me to notice…
      And not ignore.
For I have stood on the rim, 
…and was invited in
          to see the subtleties
    Of Periphery.

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