I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope/ For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,/ For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith/ But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
[T.S. Eliot]

What I mean is
that I do not see you,
that in my blindness you
have known me, that there
are walls to climb and no ropes,
that in spite of myself I look up,
reaching, wrap my fingertips
into the rock, send my toes
searching for a crack,
an edge, a place to start.