White Stick

by Kate Foley

That sudden brilliance felt as the last spark
flares in the grate,
a sniff at the underarm of the day’s
shirt, the slippery creak
of frost under our feet, the roar
of applause when the last note
has fallen from the baton
and the violin has cried itself
to sleep - seeing is what the blind do
with ear, hand, nose, skin -
but is there somewhere,
a little dog, perhaps? -
a white stick?
to lead all our blindnesses
to that small peephole
through which we can
peer into the unseen
shapes and shadows
of our own hearts.

Copyright © 2020 Kate Foley





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