I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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At the end of the hallway
she brought me to a window
where we could look out
More than looking out, it wasn’t clear.
Tall and gray, maybe a tower
down the end of an Avenue.
“Well, this is a good view!”
she exclaimed in the hushed voice
of one who was dying. She knew by then
what I couldn’t comprehend.
“Are you looking forward to Paris?” I asked her,
partly playing the optimist,
the good boy at her side,
believing in the possibility.
“Look at that view!” she said once more,
dignifying our position.
To me it was a street in indistinct
but noteworthy light. Nothing more.
I held her arm, though our arms were linked already.
More than a view, it was the place we had
to stop. And then, after we’d stood there
for the longest seconds, as if she found
joy in indefinition, she admitted,
“I can’t tell what we’re looking at,