Aunt History is steady in all seasons
In all times of day
She has no favorite moment
Like Pirandello
Half the time
She doesn’t know
Who she is
In the modern world
This is called sanity
When she climbs a tree
She’s also
Under the roots
When winter comes
The baby birds
Are still eating worms
It takes great energy
To live this way
Without mirrors
Or wristwatches
No need
For opera glasses
Equanimity
A pure aesthetics
In her journal she writes
“I was something
If I was I”
`
Planet of the Blind 