If you can't see the magic in a flower or a leaf, how can you see it in the work of some cutpurse thief? And if you can't see it in stars of a hinter night sky, how can you see it in the tricks -- a conjuror's slick lie? There's woe in where we find great awe -- those simple illusions. And what we miss reflects our keen everyday delusions.This entry was posted in Common Meter, poem, Poetry and tagged Common Meter, poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.