Mouths of Babes

Are your eyes brown?

An innocent question asked
A sidelong glance replied
A moment taken off the road to satiate juvenile curiosity
His voice, awestruck with discovery, told me that which I already knew.
Your eyes are silver, you have silver eyes.
Silver eyes? Distracted, then concentrating once more
On the dull suburban sprawl and the road ahead
That’s a lovely term my darling, it sounds like something precious
He giggled triumphantly, a rippling burst of inner warmth
That filled the cold car that frozen morning
Is that an Autumn term or a Summer term?
Or is it possibly a Winter term like everything else?
Smiling absently, not engaged with his chatter,
I enquired what he meant,
Getting the small boy’s joke, his joy at duality in words
but pretending that I was oblivious to his meaning
I think that silver eyes are most definitely a Winter term
Like snow and ice and Christmas
Like cold breath and frosted twigs
Allusions to my inner state, I hadn’t known he knew
So I’m winter inside am I?
I’m frozen and nothing ever grows
I paused to think how much did he really know
No, not inside you’re not
His flash of deep insight surprised, reassured
Inside you’re summer,
Warmth and yellow and sandcastles
People just can’t see it
In your chilly winter eyes.