Where My Names Are

I, the blind woman, clattered up the high dark steps, ascended
soundless deep flights, unkneeling seas of stairs, flare in both eyes.
You have no idea; this is only me in this hour; the shades of my hair,
on their way to silver, are still all the lush colors of chestnut despite
this inferior hour. A woman bears a child, a child bears a woman, trees
continue their cycles of growth, bearing progeny despite their seedless
fruit, a wine tree, centuries ancient, has broken into the cellars.