Into our group the blind poet came, strummed his guitar, and began to sing

 (What’sHisName) in his candidacy for the presidency, met with reporters yesterday and....

Meeting with reporters this week, (What’sHisName), spoke of his role as candidate for...

Candidate for president,  (What’sHisName), in his meeting with a crowd of reporters...

The words do not sing. No matter how I order them to sing, they will not; I order them to fall in. They do, but shuffle their feet. A throat is cleared, too obviously.

There is within me a blind poet. For years I did not know he was there, although I could hear the clearing of a throat. I had an intellectualism that I wore proudly, although it did leave white specs on my black suit. There was a country boy look still about me, especially if I tried out announcements; the awkwardness was apparent when it showed up as a lack of self esteem. It looked like I hadn’t pressed my pants. My dearest friend was still proud of me, though; best friends are like that.

I still do not know the name of the blind poet. He does sometimes now come and sit on a bench near my heart. He comes slowly and carefully; he does not see, but he does not grope. He will come, pick at his guitar, will stop and tune it, perhaps even begin some melody over again that he has once started.

That Friday morning in our discussion group we were reading again from Annelie’s and my book: our friends are generous, patient, kind. It was Lucy’s turn to read. When she got into that passage on the Damascus Way the blind poet began to sing, just suddenly burst into song. The whole group smiled.

I am going to post those pages so you can punch a button on the blog or facebook and form your own opinion.