Spoken Through

I question spring's authenticity-
if she truly means to test my longing
with an island of cold
meant to fill my days,
leave me dreamless.

My eyes think they know magic
when they are stretched far,
for a clear sight of him
who remains mystic.

Yet I ponder his silent stares
hoping common adjectives
will not stutter my objective-
he must see eyes as
their own fateful thinkers.

So we move our own days,
counting on the sun's time
to clarify what care we weigh.