What do the blind know of the light?
Whole days, every day spent in darkness.
The sight of their hand known only
by the way the elbow bends in, the arm turns up,
fingers stretch open, peel, release from clutch,
until the palm lays flat like a map,
every line a river, the edge of a hillside
in a country that bears their name,
the smell of all the day has touched
wafting forth like a vision of things adored.
The soap in the shower, the fresh cut mint sprig,
lovingly retrieved from May’s garden,
the splash of coffee from the mug
catching the edge of the counter,
the talcum powder smeared upon the baby’s bottom,
the residue of sweat, now dried and cold from
prayers made, answered, or left on hold for another day.
If you never saw a day in your life,
but I told you my name is Light,
and we spent all our moments in friendship,
would you cover your eyes from the brilliance?
Would you never count the seconds of sunlight that remain?
Would you take my hand, turn me to your face,
tell me I’ve never looked so good,
and smile at the sight of it?
PleaseGrace 