Vision comes only when I’m blind.
Then I touch each thing to see if it’s mine.
I smell the roses before they bloom.
I chew its wisdom, then swallow my food.
I hear water babies in the creek
splash when they play, rock in their sleep.
I listen to pollen, kneaded full-grown
to honey purling in waxen combs.
I hear music shaped just for my ears,
enclosing the far in the very near. I follow
the light by the warmth on my skin. To the edge
of the sunset I take it in. Twilight has footsteps
that follow me home. Night has a face I mold with
my thumb. Bed is a feather that teases the air.
Sleep is a silence that drifts without care
that move from earth to attic, from Medusa’s stone face
to Mary’s — ecstatic. Though I am blind,
still I can see how the madness of murder
turns to the sweet sun-ripened spirit, heady as wine.
I breathe a perfume made just in time.
I touch all the hills I used to know.
Black elephants I called them.
Now they are snow.