The Color of Snow
Four years pass.
I have not fought hard enough or well enough. Nothing matters but freedom and freedom is denied. Patience in even limited supply allows us to endure but patience turns bitter. Four years.
The Catalpa tree that blossoms on his June birthday, blooms and sheds four times.
He covers his right eye; his blinded left eye searches wildly, searching for sight that was lost when the optic nerve withered during the first six months.
Don't do that, I tell him.
Don't cover your eye.
Four years I'm glad I could not see into.
in a storm
the color of snow