She was wheelchair autonomous
And proud of her functional left side.
Doctors call it aphasia when she can’t find
Words, but a poet can call it
Being stroked by brilliant forgetfulness.
Here is why:

On the patio outside,
we’re surrounded
By red bricks that fracture access
To the outside.
She is flicking her pointer finger
At the freegrowing trees
As if it were a magic wand
And language the missing magic.
She is intermittent exasperation
But intent determination.

Her caregiver approaches her
With unconditional listening
And a bag of extra phrases should she need.
But she does not look
Because she is still searching.

In a final frustrated moment
Broken biology wins over hope
And her finger falls with a frustrated sigh.
She turns left, defeated
To his patient countenance
And in astonishment she exclaims
“You have eyes?!”
No beat is missed,
“Yes, two of them.”
And the same rhythm
“They are beautiful.”