Blind Poet - Feb. 3, 2024

take the poem I’m penning

in front of this fire

I could write

flames like cellophane ghosts

crackle and wave orange arms

in a fevered dance

I wonder if a blind poet might say . . .

the sun breaks through clouds

to the applause of leaves

                            or

the heat of mother’s breath

from kisses on a cheek

                             or

a face flush with love

speaks in gibberish

. . .  all from the memory lakes

of their other four senses

which I’m guessing

are probably each larger

than my one ocean

of sight