by Phyllis Frakt
The sky is bluer than before.
In the blink of an eye,
faded gray-green grass
brightens as if it’s spring.
I can make twilight linger,
gain extra daylight
without changing the clock.
But only with my left eye.
No magic yet on the right.
It preserves a murky universe
for now, until the surgeon
drives away the shadows.
While I wait—wink, wink—
I imagine I control light
like raising a window shade
to enlighten a weary world.
With the flutter of an eyelid,
I would restore rule of law,
expel autocrats and sycophants,
hit them right between the eyes.
Phyllis Frakt says if you live long enough, you will need cataract surgery and might as well make the most of its metaphorical potential. She has published previous poems in New Verse News, US 1 Worksheets, The Ravens Perch, and Second Coming. She lives in New Jersey..
