Windows of the Soul

Windows of the Soul

Men’s eyes hold sway.
Sun-dark, storm-bright, iron-gray.
Memory thick as riverbeds, shadowed by years.

Some burn gold, sharp as a knife’s bite.
Others measure distance, steady as a carpenter’s hand.
A glint of laughter, a flicker of warning.
grit-choked roads reflected in glass.

Not white, never white
but streaked with sleepless nights,
veined with late hours and unfinished thoughts,
the quiet erosion of time.

And yet
in the stillness of morning,
in the reaching hand of a child,
they soften,
blur at the edges,
let in something new.

A woman’s eyes are the last thing one forgets.
They move first, before lips, before hands,
framing a sentence, delivering judgment,
weighing the weightless.

Green tilts upward, drinking radiance.
Blue shifts, thought on water.
Brown holds warmth, dark as honey,
rich with sweet secrets.

A perfect abyss pulls in luminaries,
streetlight flickers, the gleam of a candle’s tongue
against the curve of a jaw.
This place remembers, never forgets.

Not blank
shadowed with too-long mornings,
tears traced and swallowed,
the storm of a mind raging against a quiet body.

A woman’s eyes name beauty.
And in naming, make it real.

Let the moment steep,
blossom.
A woman’s eyes do not tell, they keep.