Hindsight

I can’t imagine how I would survive without sight,

How I would make it through the day without

Dawn’s light having first passed through my eyes.

Would I walk at noon through midnight fog

In a haze composed of only constant darkness

That will last until I inhale my final breath?

Or could I somehow stare into the sun,

Unaware of its crimson glow but still able

To see the colors it reveals beneath its rays?

There must be some way to take the black tarp

And transform it into a painted canvass,

To put murals in the place of a screen.                                                                          

Sight may not be an option to experience color,

But memory is an immortal pallet, is it not?

Aided by the four remaining senses,

Nostalgia could restore my tarnished vision.

The warmth of the sun on my flesh

Would generate shades of red and orange,

While the taste of fresh lemonade would

Compliment Apollo with a yellow crown.

The scent of mountain pine and oak would

Infuse my nostrils with every hue of green,

But still the color wheel is not complete,

For how would I see my love in all her tones?

I would first acknowledge her presence

When her voice and perfume ensue

An overwhelming collage of blue and violet;

Her touch would renew the colors of my youth.

During morning drives through the meadow

I would exhale upon the icy glass,

Forming sheets that eventually dissipated

And revealed the colors of the world.