To be capable of wonder at the first great heat of summer and the evening's sugary breath in its trail at the final frost of winter that leaves an echoey palimpsest of keenly felt griefs and futures that never thawed out at the game played too long and the games not played long enough at the perfection of locally picked berries still warm from the sun jammed and pressed onto toasted bread after a swim in the sea avoiding the sewage from the water company then, and then only at the toughness of a pistachio shell and the unexpected colour of its pearl long after the crack and its plunder at dust swirling through the air birds swirling through the sky stars swirling through the deep dark. To be capable of wonder in spite of all that we have grasped and will grasp again and again season after season like the waves that roar at empty and bustling beaches alike. To be a source of wonder to the smiling midwife delivering her 1000th squealing babe between ragged hands to the stout clergyman wrongly thinking of consoling than of being consoled to the mosquito and many flying things for the singular song each new drop of blood sings to the strings taut and urgently receptive of harps and hearts to the dawn who is accustomed to her own company to the tools instructed to learn and simulate an experience of a life to the past regret to the head loss of the moment to the future catastrophe to the image reflected back off the toothpaste-stained mirror for the fragments of people bursting out of that weak vessel. To be a source of wonder to your god who is now too shy to reveal herself to you. To wonder and be wonderful in wondering at what your eyes do not know but you do at a voice flying up in song made beautiful in the moment you listen and something wet tumbles down your cheek at the squealing chorus of mushrooms and butter in a hot pan at the rise of the index finger quietly pointing to the detail only it could find and only it could want to share at the blithe precariousness of all things as they learn to dance solely for the joy of dancing equal when the slough sticks like glue and when the hilltop defies gravity at painted ceilings at brides and brides' fathers at the aftertaste of life at the uncounted uniquities that are still common to all while finding their novelty in an individual body the call to play the acquisition of a language the loss of hair the tireless use of surface area for the reactions that sustain life. To wonder and be wonderful in wondering within this system of awe is this the closest we can get to the 'truth' of earthbound life? This is the perigee — the moment I'm closest to you, You pause to marvel and the marvellous becomes you.