He would see with his hands,
map readers of sorts. His fingers
were pencils discovering the curves
of a wall or the shape of a face; the
continuance of good or evil.
His feet sensed the earth between
dirt and roads, solid or weak, as he chose
the way from the dark caverns
of his thoughts.
Sounds delighted him. Songbirds were
his orchestra. Laughing children the
rhythm of life and storms the power of God
as rain baptized his face, washing
onto it a gentleness he shared to those
nearby, though beyond their understanding.
Roger Singer 