Her Lost Sight



Peering down to see
wrinkles and white,
shrouded, writing. Gathered guests,
a circle of sorts, glance beyond
a meeting of eyes. A rule soundless,
present unmarked, pure with the
virginal and the newly born.
It keeps it right, speakers safe-
a word would imprint in
frame, the picture they came to
find but never take.
Nearly lined up
not smiling
windows open for
a "breath of fresh air"
(like she used to say)

Air rides in
from the horizon
she would like to sit and
see. Reflecting grass
and placid lake lay
beyond the pane,
there stones skip youthful.
The room calls its silence
but the window permits out
door color, takes them as
fading glows like
a child's prism
stuck in reverse.
Model family's dressed
to kill, sharp black and white -
lighter clamour for the rays
older beg the end of
their dark days. Still,
never forgetting what stirs
before them. Ahead
they will move, change positions
squeezing into the frame.
Sight drew them
but here sound reigns:
That framed by a bed;
a blind body lying, swept,
and clenched by the sheet.
No one will speak, while
silently they pray
that the window's guest
will manage to conceal
the final breath-