maybe, perhaps with the heaviest glare
I am missing of an essential care
I've never sought to recover,
a dingy room lit with fireflies
and the most beautiful sunsets
without the sight to drink
within its margins,
falling through the grains of chopped wood,
of gnarled tree bark and wild white daises
feel the impressions of a breath,
the impressions of movement
floating momentarily in a golden shaft
of spring sunlight,
then only to be snatched
with green and blues
of a waning afternoon sky,
the impressions of laughter
and the impressions of noise,
the impressions of a tender touch
tingling after the love
sought without a glimpse
of knowing what's truly
there to hold a single, ever-changing
impression