Today, because I couldn't find the shortcut through, <br />I had to walk this town's entire inner <br />perimeter to find <br />where the medieval walls break open <br />in an eighteenth century <br />arch. The yellow valley flickered on and off <br />through cracks and the gaps <br />for guns. Bruna is teaching me <br />to cut a pattern. <br />Saturdays we buy the cloth. <br />She takes it in her hands <br />like a good idea, feeling <br />for texture, grain, the built-in <br />limits. It's only as an afterthought she asks <br />and do you think it's beautiful? <br />Her measuring tapes hang down, corn-blond and endless, <br />from her neck. <br />When I look at her <br />I think Rapunzel, <br />how one could climb that measuring, <br />that love. But I was saying, <br />I wandered all along the street that hugs the walls, <br />a needle floating <br />on its cloth. Once <br />I shut my eyes and felt my way <br />along the stone. Outside <br />is the cashcrop, sunflowers, as far as one can see. Listen, <br />the wind rattles in them, <br />a loose worship <br />seeking an object, <br />an interruption. Sara, <br />the walls are beautiful. They block the view. <br />And it feels rich to be <br />inside their grasp. <br />When Bruna finishes her dress <br />it is the shape of what has come <br />to rescue her. She puts it on.<br /><br />Jorie Graham<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-friend-going-blind/
