by Terry S. Johnson
Not the spring flower catching
rain in delicate whorls
but the concave disc
inside the eye gathering light,
breathing in photons as the brain
exhales understanding.
The doctor’s bright bulb blares
into my retina as he gently
holds my lids open. My right
eye inflamed, the tissue
dangerously close to the lens.
White blood cells overwhelm
my iris like gusts of snow,
a blizzard clouding the road ahead.
We’ve caught it in time, again.
Sight now seen as a gift,
not a given. The cure
a mere sting of steroids.
Doses of drops delineate my days.
I learn to read in a blur in what
I call my impressionist
period yet how fortunate
I am. A sightless chorus
chants behind my desk. Some
famous writers like Milton
and Borges. Many others
unknown. Those
who wake each morning
to darkness for want of a doctor,
a drug or a miracle. Those
who want to walk without fear
of stumbling, to see the color
of their children’s eyes.