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.

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