Thursday, November 19, 2009

winter poem

silent wild fury
    descends from deep heights
quiet I stand
    made of secrets
    woven of desire fear music stories
    almost blind
    wonder at the grand firs
    pressed down with white
    so weary of the weight
at a slight wind
    powder cascades
        from some high branch
        in a silent explosion
    a salty tear
            born of cold
            born of wonder
            born of secret pain
            born of mystery like the stars
        washes its path down my whitened face

I move on through the thick deep silence


It was the awl
that blinded little Louis
that was used
to create the first braille.

It was the everyman
the destroyer of sons and daughters
the wounder and the wounded
the patient and the doctor
the blind leading the blind.

I am the blind one
I am the maker of ways
for all of us unhealed.
I tell rumors of light and color
and unseen beauties
I am the dreamer
the idealist
I believe in the unseen.