Our Eyes

It is sad how oftentimes when we grow older, we lose the magic we saw in things when we were children. This poem speaks to that.  It is one of the longer poems that I have written.

                                              Her eyes saw the piglet
                                              with curled tail and shrill squeal,
                                              crowding its way in to get
                                              its share of the old sow's milk.
                                              My eyes saw twenty-five dollars
                                              or meals provided when the
                                              cold months of winter made it
                                              difficult to let the land supply.
                                              Her eyes saw the shadows
                                              crawling spider--like across
                                              Her bedroom wall, bringing
                                              with them every hideous monster
                                              her mind could construct.
                                              My eyes saw the coming of
                                              evening, when I could rest from
                                              the labors of the day--warm
                                              sleep--bringing shadows caressing
                                              my mind and wiping away worries.
                                              Her eyes saw the yellow crowns of dandelions
                                              begging her to make a bouquet which  would
                                              would be destined to become a wilted mass
                                              of blooms lying on the bulkhead
                                              of the cellar.
                                              My eyes saw the weeds that were
                                              choking out the green grass of my lawn--
                                              an enemy bent on destroying--
                                              worthless plants disguised
                                              in golden allure.
                                             Her eyes saw the snowflakes
                                             as crystals of magic
                                             promising a snowman, and
                                             playing a tune that only a
                                            child can truly understand.
                                            My eyes  saw the coldness
                                            of a snowplowing bill, or
                                            the backache from lifting
                                            mounds of the horrid white stuff.
                                            Her eyes saw the rainbow
                                            arching across the gray sky,
                                            framed by summer leaves and
                                            drops of rain.
                                            My eyes saw this, too,
                                            and, at last, our eyes had met.