To my crow’s feet

You used to only fly from smile
or bright squint. I refused dark glasses,

afraid I’d miss reality, that grass
would be less vivid or artificially more,

or the sky a perpetual storm brewing.
I refused sunscreen, afraid chemicals

would be worse than too much UV.
You dug your toes in deep.

Now, at thirty eight, you do not wait
for smiles and cloudless days. You write

the history of my happiness
like a map, hieroglyphs, Braille.

My blind fingers read your rayed geography
reaching over cheekbones toward windy hair.

I wear dark glasses, slather night
and sun cream, study your slow sure gait.

I’ve cried. But you, you fly, raise
my face, lift my gaze above

what can be seen of me
to the sun of me in your beak.


Leave a Reply