In a Sunday silence, she hopscotches to a nuance in 2018 when a handsome man offered a hand of conversation.
He walked with her and stopped in front of a Spanish Colonial residence shrouded in exotic flora and fauna.
“ That’s where I live,” he said keenly.
“ How long have you lived there? she asked
“ Thirteen years. I am so grateful for my home.”
She silenced her thoughts, less thankful of her dome.
She once lived on a street
Of serenity and beauty
Her view was scoured with a sightlessness of New Mexican history
Unshaken by the homes regal display
To live without grateful when your basket is complete.
Is like living in blindness from head to foot.