Choice

As day awakes, and prods my sleeping frame
To do the same, my fingers gently probe
The shelf beside my bed, in search of one
Essential dress accessory: my pair
Of glasses. ‘Tis my daily quest for sight.
On many days, my fingers light upon
The edges of the frame. On others, though,
My scouting digits press upon the glass,
And leave in oil my fingers’ signature.

Now comes the choice. For I can face the day
With vision clear, unclouded by the smudge
Whose ridges bend oncoming light aside.
Or I can lazily decline (it’s hard
To make the effort on some drowsy morns),
And let the world distort before me, let
A cloud obscure a portion, let a gray
Occlusion come between me and what I
Apparently do not much care to see.

It doesn’t happen every day, but some.
As I arise today, O God, may I
Encounter your creation with such sight
That I can see what is, and give you thanks.
Lend inspiration to my fingers, so
That I may wipe the obfuscating splotch
Away. 

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