Were I blind, I would still understand
that word which is a language of it's own.
I hear it in the two honks of a car horn
when a neighbour departs his family.
I feel it when it rains. Cats and dogs
nest in your lap, damp and comforted.
I smell it when my spouse cooks my favorite meal.
The burning wicks,
the aroma of freshly picked flowers,
it is our constant companion, dining at our table.
If I were not blind, I could find manuscripts dedicated to this word, craving to get it just right in feather and pen.
It has been carved on trees, in caves and tattooed on flesh. Worn on finger, wrist and neck, even a daisy chain to crown Mother with it.
The grasp of newborn fingers elicits it, and when you receive a warm smile that smoulders like an anointing over you, know you have been touched by it.
It is instinctual. At towering bridges it posts 'post it' notes. They hold on to you, not allowing you to jump, as your tears stream to join the waters that flow to the sea - reminding you we are one.
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