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,

distance diminishes

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.