Your Eyes
Your eyes gaze upon me,
They fall where they may.
Is it my outward appearance—my eyes, my smile,
The furrow of my brow that tells of the day?
Maybe it’s the softness of the lines
That now grace my aging face,
Or perhaps the gray hair, coarse and untamable,
Still searching for its place.
Could it be the silhouette of my clothes
That declares which role I’m playing for the day?
Mother, teacher, wife, daughter—
A shifting hat, worn at times with quiet dismay.
Maybe your eyes go deeper,
Penetrating my soul—
Of the child born of poverty, a lifetime of uncertainty,
But who was loved so whole.
Could it be the string of anxiety
That outlines every vein?
My kindness for children, my love for the elderly—
Qualities that will always remain.
Perhaps you see my hopes and dreams
Of travels yet to be told,
Or the adult still trying to find their way-their place
In life’s ever-changing roles.
Quite possibly, it’s your own worth
That you might see—
A thousand ripples of your own reflection
When you are looking at me.
Whatever you see, whatever I may be,
Will be summed up like the ending of a book.
I will always be smiling at you,
And hope you are smiling back at me
In the millisecond it takes for your eyes to look.
