Gift

He asked for the most beautiful song but it was dark, and I couldn’t find my voice. Isn’t that where songs live? he asked. In place of song, a braided line of praise will do. But the light from my eyes was gone, taking with it all the tendriled vines. So he said, a sign from your soul. But I didn’t know I had one, until I reached inside and pulled out the small aching thing, hungry as a newborn, perfectly blind.