The pupils of the eye become smaller as we age,
shrinking to a mere third of their robust, youthful size.
You knew this, even if you were not aware
of the vanishing look in your grandmother’s window,
the reptilian ooze of warm blood over the cliff.

Open wide. Please. Open wider,
so that we might forget the collapsing,
the narrowing portals of grace,
the cold neutron stars,
in to which we are crushed.

In this gaping sun filled array
of gently swaying green,
wide opening pink petals,
and blue azulejo sky,
I lament the constriction of your pupils
more fervently than you can imagine.
For all things that shrink from the sun
might never have been here at all.