Blind Love

Lady says Doc, I think I need glasses.
Teller says, You sure do, this is a bank.

Lady wanders out, it’s winter, wonders whether
other things have got mistaken, too.

At home she ambles through the house
with the sudden feeling that it all has been

rewritten. Notices a shadow as ivy peels from brick,
the clatter of the silverware drawer, a quarter

on her tiled bathroom floor. As on a vase the piper
plays not to the ear but to the more endeared,

inner listener, so, quiet in an April afternoon,
late sun erupts a riot in her room.

Coin and cutlery go red; wood glows in the hall.
Outside, ivy finds new purchase on the wall.