by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The deaf-mute
stands in darkness
unable to communicate
himself to us.
Wait.
He touches me…
and in the blackness
his touch
pierces
to the very bones within me,
deeper than the deep kidneys,
quenching
my unquenchable
thirst,
bringing dewdrops
to my raging
fire.
fourwindowspress 
Full of your magic, Ethel.