The everchanging story of sunglasses
A decade ago,
Through hard work and sweat,
I bought my first designer’s sunglasses.
The ones I did all sorts of adventures with,
Even when lights dimmed low.
I no longer see them, as they now inhabit an old drawer,
Livingly scratched, marked: out of order.
A couple of years ago,
My friend offers me her designer’s sunglasses.
Ones with unique shape, lightness, and color.
As I expired magic hours,
I no longer see them, as they now inhabit an old drawer,
Livingly scratched, marked: out of order.
Couldn’t I be more considerate to the object and the sight?
Couldn’t I care enough for my friend’s designer sunglasses?
Am I not a caretaker?
And even if they were proferred,
Am I not prudent enough, to the value and the frame?
A couple of months ago,
I got a new handmade designer’s sunglasses.
It took me two hours, I started by choosing it, I ended up choosing it.
Many were capable of providing different realities, but those were it.
We’ve seen planets manifesting together,
I kept it clean & safe, only leaves the box to meet the nose,
Only leaves the nose to meet the box.
I still see them, as they now inhabit a magical tender box,
Livingly lucid, and marked: I am.
A couple of weeks ago,
On my sunset drive,
I reach my box, holding tales,
Delicately unspotted the frames,
To unravel the sharp lines of the dazzling sky,
Burning and regenerating through the sunlight…
As it touches her pretty face,
She reaches her dark black shades,
A covering curtain meeting her enticing features.
Livingly scratched, marked, and happy to be.
Today,
I understand, the beauty in the journey.
The object has its own story,
And so does the sight.
Here, now,
My real consideration flourishes as I let be!
My real care nurtures as I am!
