TOUCH

These fingers touch the world for me.
They know the feel of bark.
They know a tree from head to knee
But cannot know a park.
They communicate with leaves and grass
Within a six foot reach
But great plains are truely strange
As is a glowing beach.
Whose parts like shells and sand and wet
Can nest into my palm

Which tells me sharp or smooth or cold
But nothing about young or old,
Or when the sun has set.
For this they whisper in their night
For knowingness from brother sight.