This Perfect Eye
The imam on
the screen
tells me we are all
one, and I see the
picture my son took, a
footbridge arcing out
over the glassy river
to meet its
wavering reflection.
A drop of sweat
forms
behind my left ear,
and my cat
stretches his back paw,
spreads his sharp toes,
licks slurp-smack
between them.
“We must be stewards of that
small breath
of the divine in
each of us,”
that warm breath,
swirling,
wisps
finding their way
into beaks and snouts,
beading on skin
and blades of grass,
running
down driveways,
between shoulders,
all to flow
under this bridge,
all to
show us this
perfect eye,
this bridge
reaching out, and
always
returning to itself.
Paul Terranova
