Paul Bensimon

Her blindness

In her blindness
the house became
a tapestry of touch.

The jagged end of a dresser
became a signpost
to the back-door,

bread crumbs crunching
under her feet told
her when to sweep
the kitchen floor;

the powdery touch
of dry leaves in
the flower-trough
said that geraniums
needed water.

I remember her beside
the huge December fire,
holding a heavy mug,
changing its position
on her lap; filling

the dark space
between her fingers
with the light
of bright memory.