When spring comes
Uncle History puts away
His winter carvings
Raises his checkered face
Walks in the open
Whispers the oldest sentence
“Live a little, after all…”
His home-made nick-nacks
Tell another story—
Shuman under Clara’s piano
Music, the refuge
Of color
Weary eyes
Blood spatters
Of tuberculosis
He carves these things
Because they are true
Little chatchkas
That resemble birds
You can go in his house
And look
Planet of the Blind 