PATCHED

When I started this poem I wasn't thinking of my grandparents. When I finished it - there they were.

An eye

Blinded by wind

In an unsuspecting blue sky

Clouded over

With cataracts

Lop-sided

By its twin

Covered in a doctor’s doing

Patchwork quilt

Leftover from the days

When she could see

Clearly colored

Veneer

Twisted and pinched

Poking needles

Tucked under thread

Bright string

Hung over the bed

Where he laid

Tired from the day

Of pulling weeds

And raking dirt

Piled rocks

Along the edges

Row after row

End of the line

Mended together

Like wrinkled

Potato eyes

Growing out

Of Shriveled Skin

Gray whiskered face

Cold, delicate craft

Hands reaching

Out of wind torn days

Acres of heart ache

Known only by those

Who walked in my shoes.