Still to See

Abigail Swift
I didn’t notice
the trees hard-etching the empty November sky
as vividly last year.
My eyes were elsewhere,
and my body a year less tired,
less worn, and yet less stripped
of the weight that gathers 
in those long blind years
when we feel most wise.
Still in today’s lingering glance, I find hope,
a tiny shard of vision— 
when the earth turns around
to this place again,
when the trees release their finery once more to dance,
arms stretched wide to our wild, joyful God— 
then may my sight be sharper still, 
and each year grow clearer
until my eyes cloud
and mind grows clogged,
rough sparks jumping 
their synaptic tracks, and
the swift and silent link between
flesh and soul
is, for a while, a bumbling object in the way.
And still, then
still— 
as flesh withers, and all metaphors melt— 
not still, but then 
may I most truly see.

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