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Anne’s Eyes After Eighty
by Patrick T. Randolph

Anne’s eyes were blind after turning eighty,
Sight no longer allowing light inside.
Her dark eyes performed other functions though,
Giving others the chance to see her life
Reflected in that pupil universe:
Her first pair of bright red shoes at age three,
The first kiss with the farm hand behind her
Father’s new tractor—but her father knew,
Her grin the day her mother let Anne hold
Her new born baby brother—Little James,
The day she told her father she’d fallen
In love with the farm hand—his eyes smiling,
The brick church the morning of their marriage,
The sound of the government car pulling
Up to the house with the letter saying
He was dead—shot down by a German plane,
Her figure rocking in the chair at dawn—
Hoping somehow she was nineteen again,
Her hair long, waving in the evening wind,
Her lips meeting his on that summer farm.
Anne’s vision now gone, pure dark empty eyes,
Her blindness—allowing others to see.





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