I feel words like hands holding
My hands, leading me down a path
Blindfolded while my feet trip
Over stones stitched together
By centuries of stepping and the taste
Of briny rocks and anemone
Filling up my mouth.
Stopping, the hands pull the
Cloth from my eyes. One hand
Shields against the glinting glare,
While the other points into a brilliance
Captured by the wind,
Composed with a million white melody marks
And sails for where I should breathe.