Lichen

The blind woman next to me

fidgeting in her seat

visibly uneasy

brushed my arm

as if in need of help

with her train ticket

but she tricked me

her hand hovered

over mine, her

fingertips the texture

of centuries-old lichen

their pulp supple once

yet gentle still, attentive,

finding the folds in the skin

with such exactness

such deliberation

she smiled and

pursed her lips

fluttered about the scars

for she was but looking

for stories in hiding

for life, she said without words,

happens at the cracks

she held my wrist

the coarseness of her skin

made me wonder

if one day myself

I’d ever see

the way she did.