nowhitebelts

I got glasses for Christmas- a poem for Buckminster Fuller

I couldnt
quite
see.
when I was young.
My hands stretched out to verify every block of shape and color
that I saw, dancing in obscurity before my eyes.
I remember my sister would tell me stories about shapes,
how they really were, how the eyes of my mother looked
like they drank the moon, and how the car
parked in the yard was not at all like the blue rhinoceros
I had said it was.

I didnt believe her stories
until I got my first pair of glasses.
How much expression is radiated through the eyes--
I had lost that with my ancient miners pupils,
groping in the gloaming veins of the earth
for traces of the real. In my days before glasses
I knew my mothers love only through
the warmth of her touch and her sounds
of magnificent laughtering.
Now I could see my reflection, softened in her
embracing eyes.

Now I could see the Chrysler in the yard, still looking much to me
Like I imagine a blue rhinoceros would.