I am not a witch, she is not an enchanted maiden,
Yet she knows my ways, and I hers
As though a spell has been cast.
Have I done it to her, or she to me?
Or is it that I have heard her voice
A thousand times
Wonder and Awe
Those sounds that play upon the drum of my ear
Strike the same flesh, bone and nerve
and yet from each source a different voice,
a different message, so distinct.
Lying in bed at night, listening to what is being said, I hear
the water left running on the garden
And go to shut it off.
A hand outstretched in the darkness,
the corner of the table, the back of the sofa,
ten steps to the door, the edge of the bed.
There is a light
But I might be blind someday
And I must practice.