Words
are pale shadows…hands that massage…
like the root and branch of the tree,
would speak the tender of my thoughts.
Invisible words nest in branches
of the life’s tree, waiting…
waking in the afternoon of prisons
illicit, innocent icons of the heart.
I want to let you hold my hand
with no pulling back,
let my hand rest there
four seconds too long.
transforming this singular day:
heart help me now—
my hands make sculptures of breath
you, the body holding—holding
advent sure in the winding day
nebulous and dangerous
I want my hands to cup your face
I want my hands to tell you something.
