Thine eyes, at night, reply
with glimpses, torrents and throes;
batting lashes as phoenix ashes,
skips of stone on open shores.
Wax to wane to bend friendly,
may this season be neverending:
rain drops on top,
wholesome sun on sole,
the non-stop motion of blossoms.
Thine eyes, at times, defy
all psychic laws,
some physical, too;
there's whimsy, lipstick, demure posture -
one is lost in you.
The trickle that tickles the seed
is budding infinitely;
deafening, blinding, enlightening –
thou shine through aquamarine dreams:
this is what it must be like to see.