Blind Harpist

Blissful is the word

For the twilight smile

That spreads softly over his round face

Like sun through the Andean haze

Just before dark.

And you do not mind

That he does not look up,

That he smiles

Not at the notes he has made

But at those you have rustled into his cup.

And since whatever eyes he has

Are closed,

He smiles only to himself.

The evening blossoms of bright sound

He plucks with his plump fingers

In the fading light,

Though,

Are for you,

And were before you paid.