Rough weathered hand slides over
Ancient cracks. Smooth like cold opal
Or jagged like grit.
Icy touch or hot stones healing the
Reflecting shapes brightly sunlit,
Irregular patterns. Surfaces sharp
Or sleek like Arctic zinc.
Gnarled fingers stroke the veneer
And make you think.
I no longer see earth’s architecture
Nature’s palette. Grainy
Or soft like snow.
Textures are my only senses now
Quid pro quo.
For what I cannot see
I touch. Delicately cushioned
Or hard like needles on the saw.
Fingertips reading the signals
Velvet, basalt or straw.