Ode to Limits

My first pair of glasses bridged my nose
at eight. Grow in thickness every year.
'And what about laser?' they all ask.
After sporting them for less than a minute.
After laughing. After handing them back.
'I could,' I always say
because I could.
I could, but what would I lose?
All this imperfection. All this beingness.
All this allowance. All this grace.
This nurturance of inevitable loss.
This relationship with what is gradual.
The chipping away of lines and shades
and time.
Sitting in the garden in the morning
(you don't need to see the sun
to know its light). Lifting the glasses to
my crown. Letting them rest there.
Looking out to the sea of color.
Watching it all lose its shape.
It's glorious, just so you know.
Impressionist. Somber.
Mysterious in its own kind of way:
when you can't find the sharpness,
every flower hangs from its green
like a star.
Undefined and distant.
Unknowable and separate, meaning:
opportunity to relate.
And its own. Out there, out there.
Belonging just out of my reach.