A blindfolded man
Reaches out his hand
In the dark and I grasp it.
Skin rough and warm,
I know where it’s been.
Accustomed to the rock
And the hard place,
He knows each drop,
Each curve, each handhold,
Each place to ground my feet.

He shouts from a mouth,
Ungagged, and my obstacles
Crumble, reduced to gravel,
I can walk in the sand.
A blindfolded man,
Protecting my smooth,
Supple hand,
Walks with me,
Should I let him see?

The real me
Moves to free
His sight.
“No. It’s better
Like this.” He whispers.
“I can see in the dark.
Each vibration
In my ears is the start
Of a stirring in my heart
That feeds my brain.
Each waft to my nose
Helps to train
My mind’s eye
To build forms
That will shatter
When the light hits
my retina.”

Resting by a tree,
“Would you have trusted
Me, if I could see
You completely” he asks,
As he grasps for a limb
Intricately branched.
“Each of these buds opens
At my touch.
Let me help you reach
Them, your touch will
pollenate them
And, together, we’ll
make fruit to nourish
Passersby, weary
From the climb.”

His question,
I did not answer.
I only let him guide
My finger to the blooms
He opened; and, together
We made fruit
For passersby,
Weary from their own
Climbs, through the darkness
And the light,
Both in blindness
and in sight.

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