“Journey of a Blind Grandmother, Ending,” Ensign, Mar. 1978, 43
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, for the first time,