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Sight
by Faith Shearin

Go north a dozen years
on a road overgrown with vines
to find the days
after you were born.
Flowers remembered their colors
and trees were frothy
and the hospital was

behind us now, its brick indifference
forgotten by our car mirrors.
You were revealed to me: tiny,
delicate, your head smelling of
some other world. Turn right
after the circular room

where I kept my books
and right again past the crib
where you did not sleep
and you will find the window
where I held you that June morning
when you opened your eyes.
They were

blue, tentative,
not the deep chocolate they
would later become. You were
gazing into the world: at our walls,
my red cup, my sleepless hair
and though I'm told you
could not focus, and you

no longer remember,
we were seeing one another
after seasons of darkness.

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