by Dee Ann Hart
You see the cane, a slender white divide,
And assume the world has shrunk away inside.
You offer pity like a heavy, folded shroud,
And speak your wonders just a bit too loud,
As if the absence of a flickering light
Has numbed the mind and hollowed out the height.
But walk a mile within this textured grace,
Where gravity and wind define the space.
The city isn't dark; it's a rhythmic roar,
The scent of roasted beans by the open door,
The sun is not a shimmer, but a sudden heat,
The map is in the friction of the street.
You think of "void," a canvas wiped of ink,
But pause a moment -- stop, and breathe, and think.
The fingers read the braille like dancing feet,
Where Hemingway and winter's chill can meet.
The "shadow" you imagine is a vibrant field,
Where logic blooms and inner truths are sealed.
There is no "bravery" in a morning walk,
No "tragedy" in how a friend might talk.
Just different tools to navigate the gale,
A different wind to fill the spirit's sail.
The eyes are only windows, thin and small,
But vision? Vision is the greatest sense of all.
So drop the lens of "lesser" or "bereft,"
And look at all the brilliance that is left.
A life not dimmed, but rendered in a key
That those who only look may never truly see.