Thursday, February 23, 2017

JD DeHart writes


They would hardly call me rustic, 
though my knuckles can bleed. 
They would hardly see my strength, 
though my face has stubble. 
I am a mixture of father and brother, 
a little mother thrown in, 
the well-lit room of my growing up 
and all the family warnings 
lighting my way, stone by stone. 
They would hardly call me rustic, 
though I have been stepping all 
this way, mostly blind, sometimes 
scrambling, uncertain, unsure, 
but in perpetual motion.
acrylic&colored pencils / paper Blindness -- Alexandra Levasseur


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