I saw everything with the strange

                        new sight that had come to me.

                                          —Helen Keller

Water was the first word.

It melted through my hands

until ice broke free from my mind.

A casement unsealed in my endless

night and opened another's soul,

released me to what I imagine

light to be, something pure and clear,


the scent of sun-dried grass,


a squeeze of orange on my tongue. 


Words tumble into my fingers.

I hold them like a shower of shells,

like mint leaves, smooth stones,

the startle of snowflakes;

each has its own feel

as it breathes against my skin.


Questions touch their way

down ancient corridors; every crack

and crumble tells its own story.

My hand is sweet clover, trails

of peach, a soft-feathered bird

lifting me through the opened window,

where the scent of clematis

and smilax climbs the stone

wall of the house and transports me


across thousands of miles

and all the years I have lived

as I fly from this unspoken tunnel.

                             Patty Dickson Pieczka


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