As dawn fogs the pane, her lawn adorns itself in light she barely recognizes. The sun counts down her cheeks, her throat, the wooden table, linoleum floor, In one hand, a coffee cup steams, on the sideboard, a saucer rests on a hand-written letter. her first in years. read more by her warm finger than her eyes. There may be sentiments in the paper crevices. Even love in the scrawl on ink. All unfamiliar territory to the present. In her window box, roses lean like she does, toward what is most bright. Her sight taps this least of blurs like a cane. Perhaps beyond this yard the past unfolds more clearly. But here, it is merely morning, a dusk in the making.
A Woman Going Blind
Morning light gathers on the letter she traces more by touch than sight.
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