We Are

The world is blurred around the edges
as I sit listening to my mother 
read a summery of our music.  

I can’t form sentences.  
I can’t delineate denotations from connotations. 

I found it buried in the living history that:   
sense and sentence share the latin root to feel.  

The sheep with kind eyes is not proud. 
Why does it stare up?

My turquoise blanket is frayed and stained and lovely. 
Why is the red applique is falling off?. 

I am not sitting on my chair.
Why is it burdened so? 

I am. 
She is. 
We are.