How fortunate the poet was
to be blind and not deaf

 

You wished for the wee wind, Ezra,
To sweep your words
As leaves unto the sky
And the wind did come
For the old voice lifted itself
Weaving an endless sentence

You wished for the lamp, Ezra,
To guide your path
As stars unto the night
And the lamp you did find
For in the gloom the gold
Gathered the light against it

     —

I cannot see yet, Ra,
But your voice I have begun to hear…
That wee wind does carry it well
I cannot hear yet, Ra,
But your gold I have begun to see…
Soon, it will be bright enough to write

For a wind is not a river not a plain not a light
It does not drain it does not dry it does not die
All year it howls, Ra,
It howls and it cries and it howls
AND IT HOWLS
And for eternity shall it howl

So blow through the leaves, Ra,
And stir the smoke
And sway the trees
And I too, come the time,
Will find you
Guided by a lamp of my own
Speaking with a wind of my own

And it shall howl
loud enough for you to hear…

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