A Sonnet on Seeing
The water droplets smear the glass.
Acne, a rash, silver-white heads
with black eyes,
all dotted, clustered over
obscuring, blurring, confusing
the scenery and the sky.
They trail down,
sometimes teaming up
for this race of gravity,
leaving behind their snail trails,
like wet sleep over your irises.
So you wash, rinse, dry
and repeat when the clouds (again) cry.
Copyright: Laura Davis © 2017, all rights reserved.