each of us is witness to our own world
Was a late November evening,
perhaps my eyes deceived me,
but by the glow of pale moon
morning’s snow reflected blue.
Not the tinge of artist’s brush,
hinting snow cold to the touch,
crayon scribbled my yard to ruin
with jagged lines a cornflower hue.
Pulsing kaleidoscope of migraine,
shifting segments slowly each time,
they made their way across my field
of vision, if not across my world.
The inventory of ontology
is what we share and what’s inside me.
So these searing lines are real,
though only I know they occurred.
