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This poem was written about 20 years ago not long after I had bought the raw land that now embraces my home that embraces me that embraces the lessons of my country surroundings.

Betty Luceigh (c. 1995)

If sight were sound
what melodies would my eyes hear?

Would the golden brown grass blowing in the wind
whisper secrets one blade to the next,
spreading rumors across the hillside,
or pray in unison with loud “Amens” for new rain?

Would the weed pulled from the roadway dirt
groan out long and low of its uprooting
or shout thanks for being shared
in the curiosity of its light green nature?

And what of the river-water glistening
as it caresses the algaed rock?
Would it sing a patriotic song on its march of freedom
or instead plead to every passerby to hold it gently in hand?

When the rainbow colors become a scale of tones
every scene becomes a chord, every movement a melody.
Every violence transforms into a dissonant black screech,
every act of compassion a unifying Om of whiteness.

And should that day come when only sight remains,
will those I have loved
become the dry grass on a distant hill
too blurred to sound through the morning haze?

Or will I hear them still with each appearing,
gaiety from their hair,
stories from their hands,
anger from their stride,
and returned love from their gaze?

When I too must join the water and the weed,
let me become the full rainbow seen,
humming a grateful heart to those dear
patiently in hope that they, too, will hear.