What if we all lived a life of criminal mystery, not ignoring crime?

Examining greasy stains, marking shadows with a chalk outline,
Finding meaning in our everyday, mundane, and common things.
The color of her hair, the smell of cut grass, and buzzing bees,
Could speak volumes like a doctoral recital, an opus on philosophy.

Would flower garlands, falling leaves on slicing winds, glittering ice,
Become scenic lattice playgrounds where our memory’s ivy climbs?
Would footprints in the snow, blood stains, and broken glass,
Become delicacies inspiring fear, sparking childish imagination?

How different would life be in those moments, the slices of time?

If every second spelled mankind with mystery and awe?
Could we link them on a wall, entwining them all with yarn?
Could we leave a trail of bread crumbs pointing others to our find?
Could we create a map, a nest for those sharp-eyed little detail birds?

Shiny scraps of foil, brown bottle shards, pillaged buttons,
Are treasures in this imagined world, clues connected on our wall.
A bank of found forgotten things fill our evidence lockers,
Proof of fearful crimes, criminals in lack of caring minds.

We never stop to wonder as we hurry by convicted, criminally blind.