My left eye spotted you
thanks to the light
that shines only in the first half of the morning.
Over the neighbor’s roof and down through
onto the purple chair
painted last summer by your father
in the light
of that same ray.
This is how they grow.
First one at a time, with pomp —
like suburban mushrooms,
only noticed after the fact
by one who travels close to the ground.
And only in light that shines
in the first half of the morning.
My left eye spotted you.