The optometrist told me
I have distance vision to die for.
Limpid speckles in an eagle’s aerie,
the fine pin feathers on a molting gull. I see
dead grandmothers at births, and long lost
lovers in the etheric field.
She said my life depends on
sharpening the details with a lens.
Needle-thread stitchery, black inked
ingredients on the vitamin vial, dust mites
in the down comforter, and old fir’s splinter
underneath my thumbnail.
I watched a high rock gull on statue stilt legs
wear nothing but feathers and rain. Thunder
grumbled around us and his winter-white plume
shone bright-faced in the mess of sky. Unblinking,
he watched storm’s beginning to end,
and saw its entirety through the individual drips.
Poet Joe Hesch at dVersepub asked writers how we capture poetry. This one was captured in parts: jotted on a business card in the parking lot outside the optometrist’s office, and spoken into my ipod while running along the shore. The better part of the writing was spent at my computer.. joggling words and lines around until the topic became more clear. I hope to be out and about reading poetry later in the day. Cheers, poets! I always enjoy knowing I am not in this alone.