This one was published in Alaska Women Speak.
All Things Mundane
Years ago, my right eye lost sight
of the spring leaves. The ones I passed by daily,
unimpressed by their freshness, their greenness,
their joyful triumph over the barren winter,
as I carried my backpack in hand and
my university degree in sight.
Though, as spring turned to summer,
the eye clouded and blinded, and the
eye chart on my bare knees
was gray like water
in a used watercolor cup,
and my canvas was as blank as could be.
Uveitis, a strange word, never really explained
the summer’s lost colors
and the air conditioned exile
and sunglasses worn inside.
Nor could it prepare me for the steroids,
and that last shot,
directly into my blue iris,
that brought back more than my vision.
As the fall leaves’ edges no longer blurred and
smudged like an eraser correcting a mistake,
but cut sharp around their respective
burnt orange and yellow perimeters,
the terminating season gave me their colors
and my vision a refined sharpness,
a rebirth of something that was once taken away:
a gift of all things mundane,
never to be taken for granted again.