I first heard of aphantasia in a writing workshop – a poet told us she didn’t see visual images in her head. I had always thought everyone didn’t.

When Mom flew off with the Canada geese you made me promise that we would never leave one another.

The little piece of newspaper, crisp and dark with age, flutters out of the gritty space between the fridge and the cabinet. I am cleaning the house while my wife is at school and at first I don’t understand.

They approach in hungry morning light, treading the path to the ridge and the row of giant’s teeth grown crooked with the ages

Chad, an aspiring author, sank into his easy chair and drifted into a
reverie.

faces on a school bus:
petals of flowers
unopened

midnight sun
a polar bear’s breath
catches fire

today, Christmas Eve,
my granddaughter visiting
her bright eyes – her faith

The magic of growing things, its tangible beauty, I did not understand.