Of Knowledge
When young, I played in an attic,
musty, shadow-laced, where spiders spun in rafters
and dust bunnies bred.
Single window, single shaft of
burning, clearing light.
It taught me of dust, of the world I haunted.
As I grew, my grey hand groped a curtain,
and another, and more.
I pulled each cord.
Light destroyed my old world, and I saw.
Some of my toys, junk, and some, diamonds.
The more windows blink, the more I understand
my poverty and wealth.
Prudence T.K. Vasquez is a poet living and writing amidst the misty mountains of southern Appalachia.
Amethyst Review 