The blind man sat with hands on lap
On a bench beneath the tree.
His white cane, scuffed and dirty,
Sat with him, on his knee.
Passersby felt sympathy
And all spoke in hushed tones.
But not one of them would try to “see”
What he “saw” in his bones.
And after daybreak, still, he sat
As quiet as can be.
Myself, I feel he saw much more
Than we could, you or me!
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