Barbara Matson
He dwells in a soft land of
hands and shadows,
where dark is always darker,
color subtracted
His hand surrounds a white cane
smooth to his senses.
shiny to ours.
His daily walks are mapped by kind strangers.
who point the way.
His senses alerted by smells and sounds,
apples tasted, not seen.
His bright words carry no judgement
no detours viewing dress of color,
his was black.
His arm is entwined in another’s,
a woman, using a white cane.
They tap the curb
before stepping courageously down
into four lanes of traffic.
He missed my smile,
as in tear-filled wonder
I watched him manage his freedom,
his eyes closed in joy.