What does he see?

I’m waiting to leave for cataract surgery, left eye, scheduled for 11:40 am. The eyes are sensitive. Those of us who have not had to adapt to blindness, rely on our visual cues to assess what is going on around us. We look at faces to discern what is being communicated, for movement for signs of danger, at sunsets for just shear beauty.
So I sit waiting, and remember what I wrote when I first found out about the cataract last October.  Post eye drops, I was sitting in the chair waiting for the ophthalmologist:

The Eye Doctor

Waiting, dilating, I wonder,
“What does he see?”

Is the the eye a window
to the soul?
Is mine covered
by a gossamer curtain?

Deceived by magic and illusion
Blinded by hopes and fears

We can be so sure, but
not necessarily so right.
We don’t see the same colors, yet
argue as if we see the same world.

The soul’s eyes do they
bypass the curtains of deception?

Still dilating, I sit waiting—
wanting some great insight,
at least some better eye sight—

and I wonder,
“What does he see?”

2015
besliter