Valerie Bellefleur Poet Narrative

Seeing Hands

Her fingers feel the soft grass beneath bare toes
and she sees the blue of the summer sky
though the touch of racing fingers across a colorless page

She smells the apple blossoms that waft on gentle breezes
and hears the honey bee who visits each tiny flower
as a distant whippoorwill sings in the June morning

Her mouth waters at the taste of wild strawberries
sweet and ripe as the juice runs down her chin and
she absentmindedly wipes it away

She feels the sun on walks with her dog
and wonders what does a yellow sun look like
as through the page she feels its warmth

Over the raised dots her fingers fly with a
thirst to experience more of the life that
she can only imagine outside her dark world

Turning the page, she reads the clouds that
fly past in a earnest wind that plays with kites 
in kaleidoscope colors pulsating in a fighting breeze

A knock at the door and the book is closed
as finding her cane, she is back in the darkness
of a unforgiving world of questions without answers

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Laurie Ginn February 1, 2009 at 4:08 PM Lovely poem Valerie. Each phrase is so descriptive and beautiful. Laurie

Carrie Richards February 1, 2009 at 10:34 AM Memory can be a beautiful thing...something to treasure when our body has given out. Makes me think of my Dad...when he was ill towards the end of his life, he would sit at breakfast and tell us of the dream he had the night before, of back-packing on his horse in the mountains, like he did when he was a young man. Sweet poem, Robin. Love, Carrie