by Helen Murphey

When spring comes
She still can’t see
She still can’t see the colors
But she can hear them
She can hear the crunch of feet on grass
Of the peeping of baby birds
The growls from the lawn mower
She still can’t see the colors
But she can taste them
Taste the salty rainwater upon her tongue
And the lemonade
The quintessential drink of spring
She still can’t see the colors
But she can feel them
The soft fur of the baby rabbits
That occupy her backyard
The soft flower petals
Delicate and soft as a baby’s skin
She still can’t see the colors
But she can smell them
The scent of grass after a light drizzle
Of freshness, and of rebirth
And most of all, of life
She still can’t see the colors
But she almost can.