Striding into a thankfully cloudy day,
your pupils perform a fine imitation
of Hershey’s Kisses after the optometrist
dilates your aging eyes, which are in
(hallelujah) not-bad shape, the two
of you agree.

But outside, your aperture wide open,
you perceive a tack-sharp focal plane
a hair’s-breadth wide against a blurry
background, and you wish you could put
a hand on the lens of your retinas to pop
it all into sharp focus.

But no, your vision will remain expansive
for a while, leaving you a wide-eyed kid
inhaling the petrichor wafting up from
the just-rained-on ground, eagerly taking in
the unusual perspective, stepping gingerly
over the slick linoleum of leaves underfoot,

trying hard not to squint.