the blind road

What could I say from up here that would get you speak to me? 

 

What mountain of words would you recognize as mine? 

Any of those written on stones that I haven't bothered to throw back?
Or perhaps my feelings trampled like grass hidden beneath a carpet of snow.

Seeming to sleep under a frosted crest. 

Emerald blades below your notice. 

Maybe the fault is mine and I am not finding you through the weight of my own winter.

Not hearing you clearly over my footsteps. 

Our path not crossing because I am the one who can't stand still.

But I know that's not it.

The valley at large lies beyond the edge of this white ribbon of a road that I walk.

It is there whether or not I can see it.

Down there the snow gives to rain.  The blind ones lead and the good ones lose.

I know. 

 But I can't see what isn't there. 

And I can't hear what isn't being said to me.