This Season from My Sight

So, you’re reading a poem
A few hundred years old,
And it’s not that the poem

Profoundly alters you
Or shifts your perspective
With its ancient wisdom,

Which isn’t all that wise,
Which is mostly foolish,
Which is as most verse is,

But when you step outside
The door of your small place
For a bit of fresh air,

The words and rhythms cling
Like a scent in your thoughts,
Wisps from so long ago

That their world’s not your world,
Your world unknown to them,
Your unforeseen concerns,

Every last one of of them,
None of their concern, nor
Theirs yours. It’s dizzying.