Here’s a poem I wrote about twenty years ago, about my eyesight:
Although the eye doctor’s chart
melted sadly into the wall ,
I can see this minute before me,
like a snowbird in the feeder
eighteen inches from my face.
We stare at each other through the window.
His black beady eye is watchful.
I also can see nouns and ruins,
hairs on my arms,
wrinkles on my hands,
pulls in my stockings and pills in my sweaters.
I can see the ocean, near me in my mind.
that same bedroom window at Cape May
every summer for 14 summers,
can see it better than the snow squeezing the field.
I can see the hummingbird from five summers ago
better than I can see the finches this morning.
And I can see you, nearby,
on my clothes,
see you with warmth
they make my sight specific
even when they are smudged.