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I saw her like you see a shooting star;
something moving out of context with the rest,
breaking the cadence built around her,
and shining brighter,
and trailing longer,
and absolutely impossible to take your eyes off of.

 

Blonde hair, braided neatly,
brown paper bag and groceries inside,
steady pace and sturdy,
with her ruddy babe along for the ride.

 

A child of three,
telling all that he saw,
strapped to her back
in the catbird seat;
high and connected
to the sway of her gate
and the snap of her feet.

 

He reported with his eyes what hers could not see

as her long, white cane kept meticulous beat.

 

Though my eyes could move and follow them walking,
my other else froze:
I stopped planning, stopped talking.

 

And I saw.

 

My mother, me,
our mother’s before us,
in blindness we carry
and join the deep chorus
that sings for the children
we heave to our backs;
pray fate will atone
for all that we lack.
We bear our sweet poundage
with industrious might
and lead to tomorrow
though we step without sight.

 

Today, on the street,
my heart ached and took flight
‘cause I saw two shooting stars
in broad daylight.