My father had blue eyes
They were the clear, deep blue of the lake.
They were the blue of the brightest summer sky.
I always wanted blue eyes.
Mine were brown.
I used to love it when he looked at me.
His smile was sort of impish.
The creases of his face framed his eyes
And etched the wisdom of the years.
My eyes were different than his
But I'd like to think our eyes saw
The same promise of each new day.
The good in others.
The magic of spring.
The love of family.
The promise of tomorrow.