When my finger pushed at the marks
jumbled on a page and stumbled
on the word g i r l, when I found
that every scratch had its own sound
g
i
r
l
I said it in Scottish. girril
That was just the start. Words
made stories that flew out of books.
Buses had routes and I could
read them. Signs spoke to me
as if they had voices. I sent
messages, word came back.
Then the glass blue days began
and lived in my house as if
they would never crack
or break.