I met an older gentleman, Vinny, yesterday while delayed at LAX. He shared a story of his strong relationship with his recent college grad daughter, who had torn this poem from the April New Yorker and given it to him before seeing him off. Of course he brought the poem to my attention after I told him that I write.
To me, this series of random events means more than the actual poem, so I am passing it along to continue that sense of fate. Every random act is not blind, but actually carefully calculated. Think about that as you read.
Your Blinded Hand
by Tennessee Williams
everything that greens and grows
should blacken in one moment, flower and branch.
I think that I would find your blinded hand.
Suppose that your cry and mine were lost among numberless cries
in a city of fire when the earth is afire,
I must still believe that somehow I would find your blinded hand.
Through flames everywhere
consuming earth and air
I must believe that somehow, if only one moment were offered,
find your hand.
I know as, of course, you know
the immeasurable wilderness that would exist
in the moment of fire.
But I would hear your cry and you’d hear mine and each of us
the other’s hand.
that it might not be so.
But for this quiet moment, if only for this
And against all reason,
let us believe, and believe in our hearts,
that somehow it would be so.
I’d hear your cry, you mine –
And each of us would find a blinded hand.