Journey of a Blind Grandmother, Ending

By Marilyn McMeen Miller Brown

Second Place All-Church Poetry Contest

Growing old, I hear bees

(Or is it light?)—

I hear buzzing bees.

Outside of my hands there is light,

I remember—purple dragonflies

Turning a thousand pointed mirrors,

Golden buttercups refracted by rain,

My mother’s shadowy hands on my brow.

Shadows like those hands cover my eyes, A dark rippling silk

Drawing inner circles of sun

Where the buttercups wake

Along the smooth crevas

Of my mind behind

A smoky lens that breaks light,

Makes geometry of the sun.

Suddenly a shadowy angel

Draws circles, draws me in

Where I may sleep

And wake

And, for the first time,

See.

Photography by Annabella Laird