The light there cools blue streaks

As it climbs the side of the hill.

She has her drawing pad and brushes

And slinks her way up.

 

At the top the view

Is neither proof nor reduction

That the world is still alive.

 

She begins to paint anyway

Quick flicks of the brush

Ascending scars of blue and green

Listening to the wind,

Waiting for the landscape to show her

All things are redeemed.

 

But then the brush stops

And the air gives up.

She sees no image on the page

In her fifth year of blindness.

 

But she still imagines.