Born blind, light never handicapped his sight
with what he thought he saw; his vision was pure.
A stranger wet his eyes with mud and spittle
and told him to wash in Siloam’s pool,
a simple thing and simply done. Returning,
neighbors caviled at his transformation:
“Could this be the same man?” onlookers asked
instead of welcoming unwelcome facts.
Well-schooled in jots and tittles of the faith,
the Pharisees maintained, “This is no prophet.
“Besides, what prophet heals on the Sabbath?”
“Whether he is a prophet I don’t know”
the beggar said, lost in the novelty
of ever more new faces to decode.
He knew of no Messiah on the road,
only that “I was blind but now I see.”
Charged not to speak of it, he fled the hats
whose little box of God had coughed him out.
What miracles are lost, my sons and daughters,
when hindsight changes wine back into water?