One sense offers a fifth of what’s true.
But far out in a grove beyond the math,
I am thinking of that smooth Alphonso,
Sun-kissed and chock-full of sweetness,
inspiring me to just about lick the juices
I fancy running down my fingers
But that Alphonso,
when I cut to the seed —
So black I had to pause to sooth my heart
as it rhymed off that saying about books,
which even if you don’t know an Alphonso
you know:- Judge, it says, not by sight alone.
And submit only after sense upon sense engaged
the fullest picture takes shape.
That goes for books, Alphonsos, and even art,
Like that black and white painting on the wall.
It hangs for me like a mango from a limb;
But luscious as the golden skin appears,
every sense must come into play,
else all I’d note is the lack.
I would pass over white clouds fully formed
and in dissolve. I would not hear the wind
brush them thin, or feel their lazy passing;
I would not burn with the loneliness of
the unseen channels above, or below,
where imprisoned water struggles under snow;
No, I would not taste life unfree as it is
to rise above the hard ice’s sun-made chinks.
And daily it reminds me:
One sense offers a fifth of what’s true,
And accorded senses enough to save you,
Bring all, and leave none untapped.