This is how I think it is. Poets of observation ride the surface of events and life. They don't go deep and get stuck under their own emotions. They stay aloft to notice the present moment moving between layers of interpretive reality. Where we are now is simply next door to all there is that waits for us to open the blinds in the morning.
"Yesterday, when I dug into our garden's
matted earth, I felt your hand slide
into mine as if it were putting on
a glove. We went together
into the awkward ground, turned the soil,
let it slip between our fingers."
From, I Am Wearing Your Shirt by Jack Ridl