Sea Glass

I could read your eyes once.
Lashes flicked each time a cursory thought crossed your mind.
The corners creased when some tender moment touched you
Or when you smiled at a baby in the park
As we walked together beside the grass meadow.
And they cried at sad songs
And when your cat died last winter.
A piece of sand or grit sometimes found them
And you would let me delicately brush it to the lower lid,
As if placing my finger on an all too perfect book,
And running it underneath the sentence,
Reading and understanding your prose.

But one day, those eyes turned to sea glass.
Frosted by attrition, I could not understand them any longer.
I picked up this glass from the soft, warm sand around,
But the pieces were dull, cold, heavy and dark.
And in the end, the only thing to do was throw them back,
And hope that in some freak wave
The pebbles and grains of sand would, by chance, reverse their cruel work
And restore transparency.