The Blindman
May Swenson
The blindman placed
a tulip on his tongue for purple's taste.
Cheek to grass, his green
was rough excitement's sheen
of little whips.
In water to his lips
he named the sea blue and white,
the basin of his tears and fallen beads of sight.
He said: This scarf is red;
I feel the vector to its thread
that dance down from the sun. I know
the seven fragrances of the rainbow.
I have caressed
the orange hair of flames. Pressed
to my ear,
a pomergranate lets me hear
crimson's flute.
Trumpets tell me yellow. Only ebony is mute.
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