by E. D. Blodgett
When we are old, our eyes will open wide and everything we knew
will exit through them, standing here and there, domestic order of
tables, chairs and bed making room for what we are -- a rose
that passed between our hands will flower there, a place where we
were walking in a change of light, a star that we had shared when we
were far apart -- and we will gaze upon them, moving through our eyes.
What other history is to be known? I do not think that we
will speak, but gestures will become our sentences, the past that is
inside us unconstrained, wherever it had been emerging in
the light, close to hand. We are the world that embraces us,
and of its silence we are given birth, the we that we reside
within a womb where roses, stars and chairs in their enigmas are.
When we are old, we will step carefully about us, mysteries
of where beginnings are, of our being rose, possessing us.