Creation.

   The blind woman knows where she lives
   in no way I can see. I drive back and forth,
   for these minutes her borrowed, ignorant eyes,
   and when the place happens on us I help her out,
   not sure what help she doesn't need.
   She reaches for rough, familiar grain
   and her railing appears; one step
   and coarse gravel stretches home before her.
   She aims good-bye at where my voice last was,
   waves her long white wand, and around her
   the known world lurches to life
   rushes up from everywhere
   all still here.