Afterimages on a computer screen

I almost called her over

from where she spooned oatmeal

into her mouth in front of her

computer screen

in the other room.

A blotch - irregular,

the color of a prepared blood-stained

slide, ready for my father’s microscope,

possibly out of date,

since he is no longer around

to read this,

like the floater I watched

in my left eye

off the starboard wing,

my mother handing me

lifesavers to keep me quiet --

hovers over the letters and words

that I am trying to affix to a

digital piece of paper

here in the study.

A shadow fringe, off white

rectangle, the bottom of the page

does not exist in any dimension,

but still the top half

appears to elevate slightly

on Word.doc slate blue,

completing the illusion

that I might have something

to say.

As I stared into the screen,

suddenly iridescent bubbles

appeared and bounced

perfectly round against

each other, and round, so round,

clustering like too perfect cherry

tomatoes in rectangular corners,

still eternally fresh

from last summer’s garden,

laying bare out my window,

some salad greens planted.

I looked up.

Again, the sun, behind me as sure

as it comes up in the east,

just past the vernal equinox,

reflects straight through my right eye

to my startled brain

from the upstairs window

in the brown brick house

across the back fence.

I faced the sunrise,

nearly due west.

It was as close to a miracle

as I was likely to see

before lunch,

probably.