by Chris Farago.
I’m not sure what it was—
the chimes, the ocean,
the grey-eyed stranger—
that reset my clock,
but I am young again,
my body unmarried,
my mind clear
of the fairy floss
that cluttered its corners.
I would gladly
pass on the favor
to another,
but my eyes have no color;
if indeed it was the slate
in that woman’s gaze
that put me right,
I have no way
to replicate it.
Should I wish, then,
it was the tone,
the sonated terra cotta dream
that delivered to me
my newfound clarity?
Or should I fancy
it was the water,
briny, supportive, coralled,
that gave me hope?
I do not know.
I thank them all,
whatever or whoever
brought me to
my current state.
I also thank the moon
that shines on everything;
I thank the sky, the earth, the sun;
I thank my shoes,
however small they may be.