At twenty it should have been more
clearly a path more distinguished,
each tree leaf individual,
but leaves disappeared in a blur
and everything became numbers.

For twenty the old blind woman
speaks of visions, the future clear
between dark furrows of wrinkles
and her cumulonimbus eyes –
pay quickly before glasses fog.

Why chart letters starting in E,
letting Snellen’s trail point the way?
At fifty bifocaled scriptures
promise to be a perfect guide,
heating flames on a burning bush,

but sadly then tears smudge the sight
with stinging smoke and memories.
Just at the time the route should clear
we’re standing still, turned around
gazing back with twenty/twenty.


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