We have created a memory of years.
Our body is now our nature's snapshot
A memo lane parading our memories.
Its wrinkles are a day's streams dried up
With  memories of beauty that flowed.

We cannot see beauty but feel its cold
On the bones, scrunching dead leaves,
Incorporating living smells of bird chicks
White flowers with faces down , feet up.

We are blind among  groups of dancers
But we claw their air with them gracefully.
Our fingers around their waists are birds
Taking off, to a constantly changing sky. 

(Remembering Helen Keller.After reading Dance is like thought in Brainpickings, here

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