There is the way 

your eyes see the world.

 

The way they take things into them-

selves like thieves—desperate, 

 

thirsty—your eyes are never satisfied, can look

at anything and want more of it.

 

Your eyes turn late night drives 

into meteor showers.

 

See flashing stars in the flicker of 

streetlights through tree leaves,

 

see everlasting dreams in sleepy southern towns.

Your eyes are portals: 

 

transport me to you through the color 

of peach tea, bring you last summer 

 

in the logo of the pizza place on main,

take you to your childhood 

 

home at the sight of a birch tree.

Your eyes

 

paint the world you observe the most

gentle shades of rose.

 

Your eyes make the mundane into

marvel, trade trite for entrancing, your eyes

 

with their endless capability

fill you with awe.

 

And your voice, its gentle cadence, 

its excited pitch, 

 

shares this awe with me.