Though blind

She hates how wildflowers
will not open in winter,
how birds and leaves drift
past the house like strangers
on a long walk.
Though blind, sometimes
her hands flutter at the door
but the lock is screwed tight.
No speck of dust, no fleck
of memory splays forth
to recollect the pristine joy
of having loved, once.
The wings of grief linger
in the silent box of her heart
while outside,
in the reverential sadness
of the night, bats swoop
and flap past her shuttered,
inscrutable house.

© 2005 Christine Klocek-Lim