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The tips of my fingers find things
in tufted rugs and on wear roughened floors,
or under low chairs.
My world has spaces like fog,
and loses its place.
A wall guides, a toe warns of stairs.
A hint of orange, familiar,
before a word is spoken.
Floating, filmy, silk speaks of air and light,
and wool covers, heavy with warmth and comfort,
surrounded by unformed space.
Though Carol Mackey is visually impaired, she finds inspiration for her poetry everywhere. From baking to sea winds, street names or country fairs, any and all have magic. Carol lives with her husband, 3 cats and her horse, Liam, in southern Maine.
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