The rush hour metro station
is alive with people;
bodies push through turnstiles,
along passageways, up staircases
in a flow of human traffic.
In the midst, a man
who cannot see walks with
white cane, using all his senses
except sight. He holds
within himself a map
of the flood of people;
knows the steps and stairs,
which direction to turn,
how to approach the trains.
His senses and inner map
are what he uses to navigate.
Less skilled than the blind man
at negotiating the sudden
twists and turns of fate,
I cannot memorize the routes,
remember which way to cross
or how to avoid being swept
along by the tide of forward
and backward movement. Never
yet have I learned
even this much patience:
to take one step at a time.
Given eyes that see, I
have often felt blinded
by my feelings. And this man,
in his slow procession
through a rushing crowd,
pulls my heart out of
its usual introspection,
offers the example
of endurance, brings
home the blessing
of two feet that carry me,
two eyes that should be
capable of seeing
both that which is visible
and the ineffable invisible.

Copyright by Carolyn Zonailo: www.carolynzonailo.com, 2004