Heisenberg’s Principle of Uncertainty
An observer alters an observed object…
Through the kitchen window
he sees wild gooseberries
with nipple-hard berries.
If he doesn’t look, would
they glisten in the sun the same way?
His body takes up some space
in the car, ready for a morning drive
and his wife’s body, in a doorframe.
Each wears a habitual goodbye grin.
Would it be different on other faces?
How long does a day or a year
linger in his hands?
A child’s day stretches like rubber;
he — young — is wrapped
in the eternity of love-making;
adult — he doesn’t notice mornings
or evenings: gets up, has coffee,
goes to work and back;
aged — his body hurts from
turning to look back
into his faraway youth.
The mirror in the hallway reflects
spiral stairs behind him,
leading to the bedroom of intimacy,
a family’s dog photo on the wall,
his wife in a house robe,
crossing the corridor to the kitchen.
Would the life of the house be the same
for a different husband of hers?
How to describe all that uncertainty
while standing on one foot, as rabbis say?