A World without Sight

In my mother's womb,
love, warmth, her heartbeat,
all sustained me.
Birth was fluid moving fast,
greeted by bright lights, my last.

God offered no reason why.
Everyone is special.
The world reflects,
we all amend.
Blind is an adjective for Colin Donovan.

My world is magical.
People believe I know not who they are.
I am a gypsy, my friend.
Blessed by sharper senses, you see.
Our world: an adventurous menagerie.

I know my inner home.
Outside is a pure delight.
Mist in my face, smell of fresh mowed grass.
I know birds by warbling or a squawk.
I sense moods of people by their walk.

Jake is my lifeline, a wonder dog.
Our trust, like married folk,
a language all our own.
We know the vendor's cart,
sharing bratwursts with kraut.

I hear squeaking of swings.
Laughter of children thrills me.
Silk brushes against my leg,
Joy perfume, I want to reach, touch.
I hunger for a woman's closeness so much.

I stop to chat with Tony.
He smokes sweet Cuban cigars.
His "Hello" has a tremor.
I don't ask; disease, perhaps uneasiness.
I just wish him peace and happiness.

Time to go. I feel cool evening air.
I don't think I miss much.
Jake and I listen to the news.
Sometimes I hear madness, insanity.
In my world, I treasure serenity.


By Kathie Stehr
edited April 2010