Mood

A Blind Man

I do not know what face is looking back
whenever I look at the face in the mirror;
I do not know what old face seeks its image
in silent and already weary anger.

Slow in my blindness, with my hand I feel
the countours of my face. A flash of light
gets through to me. I have made out your hair,
color of ash or it is still of gold.

I say again that I have lost no more
than the inconsequential skin of things.
These wise words come from Milton, and are noble,
but then I think of letters and of roses.

I think, too, that if I could see my features,
I would know who I am, in this strange afternoon.