Poem: The Gift of Sight

I.
They say optical illusion like that’s a bad thing.
Last night our wall was a different gray.

There are screens and then there are screens.
What was it we saw that united us?
When did I accept the gift of sight you gave me?
How did art get so deep within my soul?
I dream of Rothko Frankenthaler and Davis.
I picture the box of branches with Christmas lights inside
And the days of yellow leaves falling.
I awoke to love when the leaves fell unceasing.

II.
The world then was new for the first time.
I was so alive when I recognized our harmony.
And now down the road I dream in winter
Of the blue of Race Point Beach
And the painting you made near the harbor
And the night stars unobscured by city lights
And the act of faith contained in committed vision,
Like when my narrative turned Technicolor.
It never was black and white you see
But the spinning of color wheels we feel