If blindness is blind to itself
Then vision will come.
You open the door that was your shield,
And walk out into the coils of wind
And blurred tattoos of light that mar the ground.
The day feels cold on your skin.
“Out of my way,” you say to whatever is waiting, “out of my way.”
In a trice the purple thunder draws back, the tulip drops
Its petals, the path is clear.
You head west over the Great
Divide and down through canyons into an endless valley.
The air is pure, the houses are vacant.
Off in the distance the wind—all ice and feeling—
Invents a tree and a harp, and begins to play.
What could be better— long phrases of air stirring the leaves,
The leaves turning? But listen again. Is it really the wind,
Or is it the sound of somebody running
One step ahead of the dark?
And if it is, and nothing turns out
As you thought, then what is the difference
Between blindness lost and blindness regained?