Am I blind, Papa? asked
4 year old Mark.
He turned a circle
on his big wheel.
A sun, the color of tangerine
was setting.
Am I blind, Papa?
Mark asked again.
No, I replied.
The question swooped
like a crow, midnight black.
A question written by the rain.
Is blindness seeing?
Does sight write poems?
How do we see masterpieces?
What does the door of sight reveal
and let us see?