For: Denny

Sandy smooth brushes the palm of the hand Each imperfection felt by a single fingertip Wrinkles deep become cavernous cliffs to the mind The stubble of ink feels as a rolling wave Clustersof bumps form letters to the eyes Telling stories to the skin instead of the sight For: Denny was written about a blind man I knew as a child. Imiss him and remember always the things he taught me to be thankful for.