I would miss taste, it’s true,
but by then I will have had my fill
of delicacies, and will eat plain stew.
The touch of a lover, the thrill,
that would be hard to kiss goodbye.
But at least I will not feel winter’s chill.
Scents, however, are the means whereby
memory’s pathways collide and collude.
NB: write poems of remembrance, should that sense die.
Now sight: think of all the beauty you’ve viewed
and assemble a mental scrapbook of sorts.
Not ideal, but a comfort in your solitude.
Ah! but hearing. Mostly, music exhorts
me to insist: I cannot live without that gift,
which all other senses merely support.