JD DeHart writes

Rustic

They would hardly call me rustic, 

though my knuckles can bleed. 

They would hardly see my strength, 

though my face has stubble. 

I am a mixture of father and brother, 

a little mother thrown in, 

the well-lit room of my growing up 

and all the family warnings 

lighting my way, stone by stone. 

They would hardly call me rustic, 

though I have been stepping all 

this way, mostly blind, sometimes 

scrambling, uncertain, unsure, 

but in perpetual motion.

Blindness -- Alexandra Levasseur