by Robert Frost
Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet) —
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
Most days I can’t decide what to worry about most: Coronavirus? Evil President and his cohorts? Economic collapse? Climate change? Gun violence? The total dismantling of our democracy?
As the old saying goes, when things get tough, the tough gaze at blue eyes . . . 😀
Recently I’ve been peering at pretty peepers, relishing the fragmentary blue of the “open eye.” Therein lies history, mystery, emotion. Wishes held, secrets kept. Sometimes the weight and joy of humanity.
Wider than the sky, deeper than the sea, lost in soulful windows of blueness is where I want to be.
One could say Blue Eyes are my drug of choice. I like making much of those glimpses of heaven.
My infatuation with iridescent indigo irises dates back to childhood. When I was around five, my father tested out his new tape recorder by asking me a few questions. I didn’t know how tall I was, but was certain of one thing:
“I have blue eyes.”
Well, now. You must understand that when you’re Asian, blue eyes are quite the novelty. Everybody I knew had brown eyes. Pretty boring. Maybe I had seen someone with blue eyes in one of my Golden Books. I wanted those, and saying I had them made it so.