VOICES OF TOUCH
I saw everything with the strange
new sight that had come to me.
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