The iris of your eye
Is the iris of the field
Ticking to the tock of the tire swing’s
Strawberry lemonade hypnosis

The pupil of your eye
Is a pupil of the universe
Breathing in all the wisdom and the heartbreak
Like a little black hole sponge

The sclera of your eye
Is the blinking white lights of the Ryman
Illuminating Hartford’s most exquisite fiddle solo yet
Projected down from the great riverboat in the sky

The lashes of your eye
Own the sliding boards at dusk
After all the children have heeded the dinner bell
And the rains roll in from the west

The tears of your eye
Remember your dancing days
Before the war took its toll
And youthful drops of dew still rested upon the irises