I love by memory her eyesight.
At the window, loitering,
a bluebird on the snow.
A cardinal. The dark tree.
Something to think about,
She watched me work,
as I am working now.
The sun escaped my notice.
Lines of birds,
snow smudged,
the wheel wells caked
apart from a direction.
When I pray, it goes like this.
Her hiddenness, my learning.
Her legacy, my wild,
unspoken sass.
Sheila E. Murphy
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