by Lawrence J. J. Leonard
If she lost her sense of touch
she could not feel the autumn.
Therein lies the soul of such
encountering no bottom.
Her sense of smell would soon begin
to move, to grow, to heighten.
Her sight would lend one to believe
too often times she’s frightened.
Taste’s own nature may be frayed
with colorful flavors gone.
Kissing, too, would mock the very
nature of her loved ones.
Listening to symphonies,
She’d try to sing with yawns and cries –
one breath short of drowning.
So, let her keep her sense of touch.
Copyright © 1960-2015 Lawrence J. J. Leonard All rights reserved.