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.


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