My eyes view the world through windows
grimed with thin layers of history – my story,
My family’s story, basement stories piled high with relics
attic storage of once valued cast-offs
residue that clouds my vision
like splotched fingerprints on sunglasses
crust that can’t be cut away
like a cataract
or dissolved with ammonia
like a sponged-clean counter.
I have to go outside myself
to let the light in.
When I ride a horse
across a Montana pasture
see clouds puff with pride
smell sweet grass and sage
feel a summer wind caress my shoulder
as it sweeps across a field of dancing grass
and bids the prairie flax bend in praise
to the artist who tipped its anthers bright yellow
against a splash of soft coral
on tender butterscotch petal
I lift my face to heaven
And relish the day when God will paint me perfect.
For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. 1Corinthians 13:12
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