Senses
Senses
By: Tom Wright
2/11/98
Rustling Aspen leaves,
the only sound.
Against a gentle breeze
none other is found.
Lord, you've granted me
a keener sense to hear.
Since birth I'm made not to see
yet of sounds I've no fear.
I often feel the grass.
Then imagine how it looks
at times in class
and what green is like in books.
I read but tiny bumps,
Braille, is my printed page.
In life, taking my lumps
from cruel kids, as I age.
But Lord, I'll not complain
nor wallow in the dumps.
For that from which I refrain
cannot compare to your triumphs.
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