Only the Eyes are Innocent
There is nothing special about them.
This time of year they are everywhere.
But still, you stop and soak them in.
The ones in your lawn you cut around.
One of your many weaknesses,
this allowance for beauty in all its forms,
a tendency to stop and stare
a bit longer than is necessary.
The problem of course is that you believe
more things are beautiful
than most. The slightest thing,
a cup of perfectly brewed coffee,
a cat leaping to a fencepost,
broken windows in an abandoned house,
details and still life vignettes
that were never meant to be,
Old people. Women who would never,
ever profess the truth:
They are beautiful.
Life leaves you constantly pausing. Grateful
for eyes that even at your advanced age,
have not lost their wonder.
The rest of you is old as sin,
But the eyes stay innocent.
About this poem
I am feeling old this morning. This was to remind me that I am only partially old. Parts of me are stupidly young.