from/for Jacob Van Eyck (c. 1590-1657)
I cannot see the grasses preen in spring,
but I could, if you would, hear you say they do,
or that a plump bird settles just so in its nest.
Speak to me as the carillon does. I am ever the listener.
Through my lips I whistle near the lip of each bell
to hear what correction might be needed.
I was born without sight, yet I was born. My way
of tuning is one of my gifts to you, as I
was given the gift of bells to peal my praise.
David Curry has published poems and short stories widely in literary journals. His second collection of poetry, Contending to Be the Dream (New Rivers Press), received “Special Distinction” in the Elliston Book Awards.