My eyes are so important,
especially for me to see.
I need my eyes for when I cry,
when something is hurting me.
My eyes catch things of beauty,
things they shouldn’t trust.
They seem to capture tree pollen,
eyelashes, dirt and dust.

My eyes are sharp and curious,
they sparkle beautifully brown.
They love to see the elephants,
lead the circus straight to town.
“Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed,”
what does this really mean?
My eyes are alert and lively,
fine-tuned and really keen.

They visit the optician,
maybe once or twice a year.
My eyes are checked, then suddenly,
they blink then have no fear.
My eyes receive a gift,
it has arms and a corrective lens.
Glasses and eyes are paired,
for books and writing pens.

Sight is so enchanting,
streams the portal of my eyes.
Loves non-fiction books,
laced with mystery, drama, and lies.
I close my eyes at night,
to dream of what do eyes see.
Each sees their own reflection,
one eye winking back at me.