Wordblind

All is leaves
at my walking feet.
The brightest, I gather -
yellow,
ochre,
corrugated or
veined emerald on lemon,

take them home,
make pictures of them
so I don't forget
their colours.

You email me.
We talk
without seeing,
without feeling, smelling, hearing
any
thing.
Just words.
I want to touch you:
touch these letter-keys;

If I press delete
will this door to you
be locled forever?

I cannot forget
what I felt, scanning yours.

Throwing the leaves
out of this window
the air is colder
than when I brought them in.
Tomorrow
they'll be dull, dead leaves.

It's my fauilt this frost won't melt:
needing more than the words
you've given lately, now
I've lost even those.

The window's closed:
shut in this quiet dark
I can't see
a way out.